


Come Roses, Come Thorns

by emilieee



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrinette | Adrien Agreste/Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Bamf marinette, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fantasy, Identity Reveal, Ladynoir | Adrien Agreste as Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng as Ladybug, Marichat, Marichat | Adrien Agreste as Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, adrienette - Freeform, basically a beauty and the beast au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:34:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23883835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilieee/pseuds/emilieee
Summary: When Marinette’s father goes missing, there’s only one place he could be: the Wanderwoods, where travellers enter but never leave, and myths are told of monsters and a cursed prince living in a long-forgotten castle.For her father’s freedom, Chat Noir offers her a game to play: take the mask off his face in thirty days, or end up with her own mask and spend eternity sentenced to the castle.The clock is ticking, but between the enigmatic prince and the golden-haired servant boy who comes around at night, things are never quite as they seem.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Comments: 616
Kudos: 795





	1. hope (is a dangerous thing)

_If I’m not home in a week, do not look for me._

Marinette can hear her father’s warning echoing in her mind as she heads down the dirt path, dead leaves crunching under her feet. 

_If I’m not home in a week, do not look for me._

It had been two weeks. 

And she was looking for him. 

The Wanderwoods live up to their name; bordering the edge of Riviera in an imposing rise of dark, dark leaves, they whisper promises of secrets and enticements for travellers to enter. The woods are barred by fences to keep the townspeople from straying, and the only way in is the small, unkempt path that is soon swallowed up by trees if one dares to peer at it. 

In reality, the path does not disappear as it seems to: it is the town, the sense of reality and time, as well as the way back that truly disappears. Marinette holds her lantern in front of her with tight fingers, the small protective bubble of light barely any help warding off the darkness of the woods. Here, travellers can wander for centuries on end, and continue to wander even after that. 

_As long as I stay on the path,_ Marinette tells herself, _I’ll find the way back._

The canopy of leaves are too thick to let any light in, but from the look of it, night is rapidly approaching. Shivering, Marinette pulls the cloak tighter around herself. The cold seeps into her bones, but it’s a familiar feeling, one that keeps her eyes from closing and allows her feet to move. So she walks, one step after another, deeper into the Wanderwoods. 

It is when the silence breaks that Marinette sees the creature. 

A pair of red eyes watch her from the darkness of the bushes, disappearing in intervals as it blinks. Marinette freezes. 

The creature regards her with a sort of almost-intelligence, watching and waiting for something to happen. Then the leaves rustle, and the monster rises to its full size. It looms over her, made of shadow and darkness. 

Marinette doesn’t give herself time to take it in before she turns on her heel and runs. 

The path is narrow and uneven, and her shoes aren’t fit for such long periods of walking, much less running. Still, Marinette runs for her life, branches and briars tearing at her dress and cloak and face. The wind is howling, now, like all of the previous silence has fallen into a yawning cavern of noise, and all of a sudden, the forest is _alive._

_Don’t go into the Wanderwoods._

And what a futile warning that had been. 

She runs until her lungs feel like they’ve melted into pools of fire, but still, the sounds of pursuit, the wind’s wailing, and the sound of her heartbeat in her ears doesn’t stop. Trees and branches snap behind her, and the monster’s presence is the only thing that makes Marinette continue moving. 

She stumbles over something, but it’s impossible to tell just _what_ it is in the thicket. Marinette feels her body thrown forward with alarming force, briars tearing at skin, and then everything is followed by—silence. 

The wind sucks in its breath, turning into stillness. The scrape of branches disappear, and all of a sudden, Marinette is not standing in the forest but at the _edge_ of it, overlooking a stretch of white. A town. A _city._

It’s not Riviera, that’s for certain: instead, before her lays the remnants of buildings and paths. Bricks litter the ground, all covered in the same, strange white dust that rises when she steps into it like ghosts. And, curiouser still is what lies in the near distance: a castle rising above the white city, with spiralling turrets and covered in layers of ivy, the highest points disappearing in puffs of cloud. 

Marinette doesn’t have the time to take it all in before the silence is torn apart. With a snarl, the monster from before leaps from the line of trees. 

She moves aside by sheer instinct. In a flurry of claws and shadows, it hurtles by her, missing by an inch, and slams into the ground. Fear sparks and soars, but the sort of fear that throws her into action and forces her limbs to move. With no place else to go, Marinette picks up one of the white bricks on the ground and braces herself. 

Righting itself, the creature whirls around to bar its teeth at her. Like the rest of it, its mouth seems to be made of shadow: moving, swirling shadow that forms long, jagged teeth. 

They meet each other’s eyes, oddly, and Marinette _swears_ for a second that behind it, something very much human flickers. Then the moment passes, and the thing throws itself at her again. 

Marinette lashes out blindly. The brick connects with the creature’s face, forcing it to stumble, but not before it latches onto her cloak and Marinette is pulled down as well. Her ankle catches on the uneven ground, pain shooting up her leg, before her whole body crashes against the path. The air is knocked out of her lungs, pain and panic melding into one mess of indecipherable emotions. Her head hits the ground. 

There is a blur of shadow, a disconnected voice that is shouting—her own voice, she realizes belatedly—and then a pair of green eyes. And that is all Marinette registers before her vision fades to black. 

_____________

When Marinette wakes up, the first thing she sees is a pair of brilliant green eyes. 

She flinches back immediately, and the figure moves away from her, allowing the rest of her surroundings to come into focus. In a room illuminated by candlelight, she’s been placed on a couch draped with furs and blankets so expensive it would cost years of work for her father to afford. A hearth roars from across the room. And, in front of her, the owner of the green eyes is standing, face tilted away from her. 

Her heart leaps to her throat. “Who are you?” Marinette manages. Her throat is hoarse and parched, and the words hurt to form. 

He turns around slightly so she can see him, and Marinette swears the temperature in the room drops. Green eyes are the only part of his features she can properly see; the rest of his face is obscured by a black mask carved with gold symbols in a language she cannot read. The mask ends at the tip of his nose, sweeping up the side of his face in broad, elegant strokes. His clothing, like the mask, is of black and gold, refined, elegant, and everything Marinette is not. On top of his head sit a pair of pointed ears—ears of a cat. 

Everything comes rushing back to her: the monster, running from the path, the city of white, her saviour with green eyes. 

The man in front of her. 

Marinette straightens. “You’re the one who saved me.” 

“Yes,” he replies. 

It’s a simple word, but laden with a sort of heaviness Marinette does not understand. 

“Thank you,” says Marinette, barely remembering her manners. Her head is spinning too much to focus on proper ettiquete. “But where am I? What happened?” 

“You’ve accidentally stumbled across my dwelling, it seems, after being chased by a shade.” 

His voice is a smooth tenor. Each word is pronounced perfectly— _too_ perfectly—lovely like his green eyes, his immaculate clothing, his golden hair. But something is wrong, even if she cannot pinpoint it. The only thing she remembers is the white city, the vine-covered castle she had seen in the distance amidst the rubble, and suddenly, childhood stories come rushing back to Marinette like a flood. 

A cursed prince. A lost kingdom. A forest with an entrance but not an exit. 

“You’re him,” she blurts. 

The man tilts his head, and she swears it’s mirth that sparkles in his eyes as he examines her. “Him?” he echoes. “And who is _him,_ m’lady?” 

Instead of humouring him, Marinette pushes herself to her feet. Her ankle aches from the sprain, but it’s not so bad that she can’t walk. “How long was I unconscious for?” 

He doesn’t reply immediately but tilts his head, gaze boring into her as if he’s taking her apart piece by piece. There’s a certain cat-like quality to his eyes as well, the slits inhumanly narrow, and he moves with the same feline grace that a human should not be capable of. Finally, he responds, “A couple of hours. It’s nearing dawn. But I’m curious as to who you think I am.” 

She needs to leave. Dawn means the forest is once more safe, and she can continue her search for her father. But this man—this _prince—_ is not one to be taken lightly, and although he was her saviour, Marinette isn’t willing to test how quickly _saviour_ can turn to _captor._

“My village tells stories of a prince,” she answers belatedly, simply. 

“There are many princes.” 

Marinette dares ask, “Which prince are you, then?” 

His lips curve into a smile at the question. With a jolt of shock, Marinette realizes that his canines are elongated—like his slitted eyes, it’s inhuman and mesmerizing all at the same time. “Chat Noir,” he answers. “My name is Chat Noir.” 

_Chat Noir._ Marinette takes him in again; fully, this time. The feline eyes, the ears, the sharp incisors—is _that_ the curse? There’s only so much she can deduce from the tales about him, and it seems that the storytellers are already off. The man in front of her is nothing like she would imagine. She’s curious, but curiosity has no place in a time like this, so she pushes it back down. 

“You wouldn’t be so kind as to indulge me with your name as well, would you, m’lady?” 

The question catches her off-guard. Before Marinette can consider better, she has already spoken. “My name’s Marinette.” 

Chat Noir smiles again. “Marinette,” he echoes. He says her name like silk; such silk that Marinette could never afford. “Well, Marinette, it was lovely to meet you, but I’m afraid you should set on your way soon. It is best to find your way back before the sun sets.” 

She blinks in surprise. “You’re letting me leave?” 

“This is a castle, Marinette, not a prison. And I am your host, not your captor.” 

The tone is light, joking, but his eyes are heavy. Before she can further dwell on the meaning behind his words, he sketches a bow and gestures towards the door. “You best hurry if you want to go home before dark again. There are much worse things lurking in the forest than shades after the sun sets.” 

She opens her mouth, questions already lined up to ask. Instead, the only thing that comes out is, “May I have a drink of water before I leave?” 

Chat Noir pulls the door open for her. Outside, the same candlelight glimmers, lighting a hall of polished, perfect marble. “Not unless you’d like to stay here forever.” 

She’s being brought out of the room before Marinette can figure out whether or not he’s still joking with her. They turn down one grand hallway into another, all of which are devoid of other signs of life. There are many more questions she wishes to ask him, but all of which Marinette is too scared to say. Part of her wonders if Chat Noir is perhaps part of a long, lucid dream, and the shade had killed her all the way back in the forest. Everything about him and the palace is surreal, and in her thin dress, threadbare cloak and patched shoes, it seems to be a place Marinette can visit only in a dream. 

They enter a large ballroom when Chat Noir finally stops. “The exit is that way.” He points towards a set of doors, surprising Marinette yet again: his hands are covered in a black pair of gloves that end in pointed claws. “You will see the path. Follow it, and you will be home.” 

“Chat—” 

“The path is long,” he warns, “but do _not_ stray off it.” 

Before she knows it, he has lifted her hand in his. His grip is strangely gentle, even with the claws at the tips of his fingers, and he presses a kiss against the back of her hand. “It was lovely meeting you, Marinette.” 

She draws her hand back, but the warmth from his lips lingers like embers. “Thank you. For everything.” 

His smile doesn’t wane—doesn’t show any signs of doing so, either—and Marinette turns heel to leave. 

One final question gnaws at her persistently as she heads towards the large doors. She does not turn back to look at Chat Noir, but neither do his footsteps sound. Is he still watching her? Should she turn around, bid him one last farewell? Or perhaps it is best to forget the strange, masked prince; best to forget all of this ever happened, and continue her search for her father—

She turns. Chat Noir is still standing there, watching. 

“Have you by chance seen another traveller passing through?” she asks. Her voice echoes down the marble ballroom, whispering her own words back to her like ghosts. 

Chat Noir tilts head. “Another traveller?” 

The words escape Marinette in a rush. “My father was in the woods. He was set to return home a week ago, but he hasn’t yet, and I’m looking for him. That’s why I was in the Wanderwoods in the first place.” 

“They say those who stray too long into the woods are bound to wander forever.” 

“I _know._ But if there’s a chance I could find him—if you could even point me in the right direction, then I’d be eternally in your debt.” 

Chat Noir’s eyes flash. “Don’t use those words lightly,” he warns. “However, a man did come into the castle three days ago.” 

Marinette freezes. “What did he look like?” 

“Tall, broad-shouldered, with blue eyes.” 

Her heartbeat picks up, hope reigniting. Marinette pushes it down—she cannot afford to hope _too_ much. Clenching her fists and steadying her voice, she asks as evenly as possible, “Did he… where did he go? Where was he _going?”_

Chat Noir tucks his hands inside his cloak. His green eyes are unreadable behind the mask, a riddle that offers no solution. “I do not know where he was going, but he is still here.” 

Every last piece of suppressed hope comes welling up again, and Marinette starts towards him. “I have to— _can_ I see him?” 

“Is he your father?” 

“I think—well, I _hope_ he is,” Marinette replies earnestly. “Please.” 

“Do not hope just yet,” he replies, then turns heel. “Follow me, m’lady.” 

In a sweep of black and gold, Chat Noir is walking away. Marinette runs to follow him. 

They fall in stride as he leads her down yet another set of halls. The only sounds are Chat Noir’s steps, clacking against the marble and echoing in the emptiness. Marinette is brimming with anticipation and excitement and fear of disappointment, and as they walk, she tries to play out her scenarios. She’s never been lucky—really, she’s the _opposite_ of lucky—and for her to simply stumble across her father like so, safe and sound, seems impossible. A whimsical hope. But Chat Noir’s description, although general, describes her father, and she can’t help but think it’s too similar to be a coincidence. 

“Chat Noir,” Marinette starts, finally having summoned the courage to break the sentence. 

He looks at her. “Yes?” 

“What did you mean when you said I shouldn’t hope just yet? Is he alright?” 

“He’s alive and safe.” 

“Then why?” 

“You’ll see.” 

The vague reply doesn’t help with the stirring dread. Before Marinette can entertain any worse thoughts, Chat Noir stops by a mahogany door. Marinette nearly barrels into him. 

“My father is here?” she asks at last. 

“If he is your father, then yes,” Chat Noir replies. “But still, he… is not what you may remember.” 

With that ominous note, he reaches out and pushes open the large double doors. They creak loudly, almost like an offence to the silence, and Marinette feels her gut churning nauseously as she peers inside. She doesn’t know what to expect; a monster? A dead man? No, Chat Noir had reassured that he was alive—then _what?_ Perhaps it is not her father inside, but another man who looks similar. Her hopes rise and fall, fears blooming and spreading like poison. 

She sees him, then: Tom Dupain, standing with his back to her. Marinette recognizes her father’s build easily—it _is_ him, and he’s _alive_! She brushes past Chat Noir and bursts into the room. " _Papa_!” 

Then he turns around and Marinette’s heart stutters, drops, stills. 

On his face is a mask. It’s unlike the mask Chat Noir wears: while the prince’s is all elegance and refinement, her father’s mask is roughly cut and simple, crudely black. It covers his whole face, leaving only room for blue eyes that peer at her without recognition. 

Horror seizes Marinette and petrifies her into place. “I’m sorry, miss,” he says, voice painfully familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time. “I don’t think I know you.”

“Papa, it’s _me,”_ she whispers. “Marinette. Your _daughter.”_

“Miss, I don’t _have_ a daughter.” 

A hand rests on her shoulder, and Marinette realizes belatedly that it’s Chat Noir. The fear and pain pass, all burning into anger, and Marinette whirls around to look at the prince. “What did you do to him?” she hisses, shrugging the hand off her shoulder. “Turn him back!” 

Chat Noir takes a step back, arms raised in a placating gesture. “I didn’t do this.” 

“Then _who the hell did?”_

He presses his lips together, casting one more look at her father. Then, he wraps a hand around her wrist, despite her protesting and struggling, and pulls her out of the room before closing the door behind them. 

“Your father has been cursed,” he says the moment the doors shut fully, and Marinette stills. “Like myself, and every other inhabitant of the castle.” 

“ _I’m_ not cursed,” she snaps. 

“No,” he agrees. “You’re not. It is why I did not offer you food or drink. If you take something— _anything_ from this castle, you are bound to it for eternity, and your memories are erased. It is the ward against thieves, and to make sure that word does not spread about this place. The Wanderwoods are the first line of defense, and this is the second.” 

Marinette glares at him. “My father is not a thief.” 

“The curse doesn’t lie,” Chat Noir snaps back, then his voice softens. “He cut a rose from my gardens.” 

_A rose._ Marinette’s breath escapes her in an incredulous laugh. “A rose?” she echoes. “He took a rose, and now his memories have been taken, and he’s been sentenced here for eternity? That’s hardly fair.” 

“Fairness is not something curses bother themselves with. I’m _sorry,_ Marinette, I truly am. I wish I were able to let your father leave, but I cannot.” 

Marinette looks back at the room, at the heavy double doors. Behind the doors is her father, the man who had carried her on his shoulders for as long as she could remember. The one who she had always come downstairs to, with the bakery smelling like fresh bread and sweets. Her father, who’d held her when her mother fell ill and died and they were the only ones left behind. Her father, who now has no memory of her and regards her as a stranger. 

“There is nothing I can do?” she repeats. “Nothing?” 

Chat Noir hesitates, and Marinette catches onto the faint falter. “What?” she prompts. 

In the light of the candles, the fire flickers over the planes of his face, mirrored in his green eyes. He presses his lips together, and Marinette thinks that even without the mask, his expression would’ve been unreadable. Not in a way that she can’t tell what he’s thinking, but in a way where his emotions seem to run rampant, and there are _too many_ things that cross his expression so that she can’t pinpoint even one. 

Finally, he says, “There is… one way for him to leave.” 

Hope is a cruel thing, rising despite her desperately trying to quell it. “How?” 

“You must stay,” Chat Noir replies. “If you take his place, your father can walk free.” 

The implications sink in. Marinette runs them over, piece by piece, step by step. She can take her father’s spot—take up his mask to wear on her own face, trade his freedom by means of her own. He will be free to go, but she will never smell the scent of fresh bread in the mornings, never be enveloped in his warm hugs, never sit with him by the hearth in cold winter months and sip a warm drink together. She will be alone. _He_ will be alone, robbed of her just like they were robbed of her mother. 

“Marinette?” Chat Noir is leaning down, waving a concerned hand over her face. “Marinette, are you alright?” 

She blinks at him numbly. “If I stay, he can go.” 

“Yes.” 

“And that’s it?” 

“Yes,” Chat replies, “but…” 

“But?” 

He looks at her, stares _through_ her in a way that’s frightening and intriguing. He repeats the words like a script, but there’s a certain sort of hopefulness in his voice that contrasts the bland tone. “Once your father leaves, you will have thirty days to break the curse. If you can do so, then you—and everyone else here—is free to leave.”

Her breath catches in her throat. Marinette does not know much of curses, of magic, and of princes. But she _does_ know of long days of waiting for her father to return, of loneliness when her mother had passed, and she knows of hope and of desperation and how they are often one and the same _._ “And if I do not break the curse?” 

Chat Noir smiles bitterly at her. “Then, m’lady, you will have your mask placed on you as well.”

She meets his gaze squarely. A dangerous thing hope is, rising and falling like the tide, now thrumming in her veins in determination.

“I’ll do it,” Marinette says. 

Chat Noir’s expression doesn’t change. “Very well,” he responds. “But eternity is a long time, Marinette. Just hope you don’t have to experience it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter didn't go as planned—it went off the rails one page in. Then I had no idea what I was writing because my brain shut down. (also i'm not really used to this writing style and i have NO IDEA about pacing so much of this will probably change when i go back to edit lol) 
> 
> That being said, oops, here this is! A kind-of twist to Beauty and the Beast with Marinette and Chat! 
> 
> Feedback is very much appreciated, since I'm not too sure on this AU and I'd love to hear your thoughts :D 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [e-milieeee!](https://e-milieeee.tumblr.com/)


	2. ink and quill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi the support i got last chapter was honestly overwhelming!! thank you guys so much ahHH it was super encouraging :)

Under the candlelight, sitting in a room so lavish that Marinette used to only _dream_ of being in, she seals the contract for her fate. 

Chat Noir has led her through the maze of a palace and up countless flights of stairs until Marinette is winded and gasping for breath, her injured ankle throbbing in protest. She refuses to say a word about it, but instead swallows the pain like a bitter medicine without any complaint. Finally, when she thinks they have climbed so high that they’re far above even the clouds, they reach the top of the tower.

The prince is silent throughout the whole journey, and Marinette can’t bring herself to speak either. It is only when Chat Noir pushes open the doors to a small room that Marinette finds her voice once more. Even then, she sounds pitifully thin and shaky and scared. 

“My father will regain his memories and be allowed to leave, right?” 

He pulls the chair out for her. “Yes, if you go through with this.” 

Marinette scans the room once more before allowing herself to step inside. Like everything else in the palace, it _reeks_ of luxury: the window is draped with silk, the carpet is exotic and soft under her feet. In the center, where Chat Noir stands, is a table with a glass case resting on it. 

“Let me get this straight.” Marinette sits down, grateful to take the strain off her ankle. “I trade places with my _papa_ , and he is allowed to go. If I break your curse in thirty days, I am also allowed to leave?” 

Chat Noir nods, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile. “You catch on quick, m’lady.” 

“It’s all rather straightforward.” 

“I admire your confidence, then.” 

“I’m not _confident,”_ Marinette replies, trying to at least keep the nerves out of her voice. “I’m well aware this may be impossible. A simple task is not always an easy one.” 

“Then you have wisdom beyond your years,” Chat Noir jokes, but the smile on his face quickly turns to seriousness. “Your time will start when the clock strikes midnight.” 

He reaches forward, clawed fingers resting upon the glass case that lies in front of her. Before her eyes, something _materializes_ out of thin air—in a blend of green and red, a flower of bleeding crimson rests inside the glass case. 

A rose.

Despite herself, Marinette is awed. She leans forward to peer more closely at it. The flower is all delicate petals, vibrant inside the glass, lovely and exquisite. 

“Is it real?” she asks. “It’s only magic, right?” 

“It’s the rose your father picked.” 

Just like that the illusion shatters. _Of course._ The flower is beautiful, but it is the reason she’s in this position in the first place. It’s beauty is but a stark reminder of the danger and the thorns it hides. 

But now is no time for turning-back, for fear and uncertainty. Nervousness churns uncomfortably in Marinette’s stomach, although she refuses to give it more thought than it has already taken. Instead, she directs on her focus on the man in front of her. 

_Break the curse,_ she reminds herself. _Then, I can go home._

“How do I break your curse, Chat Noir?” she blurts. 

At her question, Chat Noir lifts his head, concentration momentarily broken. Then he laughs wryly, hollowly, a reminiscence of someone who used to laugh more. “I’ll be damned if I know,” he replies. 

Her mouth dries up, but Marinette still refuses to give in. “How will I know _when_ the curse is broken?” she persists. 

Chat Noir lifts his fingers to his face and taps. “This,” he says, “will come off, as well as the masks of everybody else in the palace. Now, are you truly willing to follow through with this, Marinette?” 

_No,_ Marinette wants to say. Because she isn’t. The castle, Chat Noir, the curse—it’s all part of something much bigger than herself. But instead, what comes out is, “Yes.” 

The look Chat Noir gives her is almost similar to pity. Marinette steels her back, stills her fingers, and locks her jaw. She wants to ask if she’s the first who has been tasked to break the curse; if others have failed before her. But it’s useless information right now, the sort that will only cause her more fear than necessary, so she keeps her mouth shut. 

Chat Noir extends his hand across the table, his palm open to her. Marinette doesn’t need explaining to know what he means, and carefully, she lays her own hand in his. Despite the gloves that cover them, his grip is strangely warm, like the afterglow of a hearth that has just gone out. 

“Put your other hand on the glass,” he instructs. 

Marinette obeys. The coolness is a sharp, jolting contrast to the heat of Chat Noir’s hands. 

Chat Noir gives her hand a small squeeze. “Say your name.” 

She looks at him questioningly, but his green eyes do not waver. So, quietly, she says, “Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” 

It’s as if the words are magic in and of itself. Despite the closed windows, a breeze picks up in the room until it transforms into a harsh, demanding gale. The curtains whip from the force, Marinette feels her hair come undone. The only thing grounding is the coolness of the glass and the warmth of Chat Noir’s hands, a tether in the storm. Her own voice echoes through the wind, laden with a sort of gravity she does not understand: _Marinette, Marinette, Marinette._

Just when Marinette thinks she cannot take the wind anymore, it settles as abruptly as it came. She’s left sitting across from Chat Noir, the rose still in full bloom in front of them. 

“Your father is free to go,” is all he says. Each word is a heavy stone dropped into the pit of her stomach, and the hidden implication behind them is clear: _now_ you _must stay._

Marinette snatches her hand out of his. “That’s all? I just had to say my name?” 

Chat Noir stands up. “Do not underestimate the power of something as simple as a name,” he replies. “Now, m’lady, would you like to see your father once more before he leaves?” 

____________

Marinette chooses not to see her father. 

It’s a choice that weighs heavily on her mind as Chat Noir leads her down the spiralling staircase once more. She runs through the scenarios through her head: none of them end well. 

It’s easier that way, too. For both her and him. 

Chat Noir doesn’t question her decision. In fact, he doesn’t speak at all, so Marinette doesn’t interrupt his brooding. 

As they make their way through the castle, Marinette wonders absentmindedly if, in her stay, she will ever become accustomed to the maze-like halls and the endless rooms. Maybe she will, if she stays long enough. 

Chat Noir’s words echo through her mind. _Eternity is a long time, Marinette._

Then again, it’s probably best she never stays long enough to memorize the layout of the palace. 

They stop in front of a pair of double doors. “This will be your chamber for now,” Chat Noir announces. “If your accommodations don’t suit your tastes, then I can arrange something else. I’ll be escorting your father to the edge of the woods soon.” 

“His memories are back?” Marinette asks once more. She wonders if Chat Noir is sick of hearing her ask the same question so many times. 

“Yes. Are you certain you do not wish to see him again?” 

“I _will_ see him again in thirty days,” Marinette corrects, even though she has no clue where the conviction in her voice even _comes_ from. Certainly not inside, where her thoughts betray her words. “But no. Not now. Or else he might not leave, and I don’t want to burden him with this. Besides, if something goes wrong, it’s better this way.” 

“Better for him not to even know whether or not you’re alive?” 

“Better for what happens to me not befall _him_ again,” she snaps at Chat Noir. 

His expression doesn’t change despite her outburst, and as Marinette struggles to reign in her anger, he asks, “Then would you like me to give him anything? A letter, perhaps?” 

She pauses, surprised. It isn’t an option Marinette considered, mostly because… 

“I‘ve never learned how to write.” The admission comes out quickly and shamefully. It hits a nerve, because for the first time since meeting him, Marinette is truly embarrassed by the differences between them: his clothing, the way he speaks, and even the way he carries himself—all of them scream _royalty,_ emphasizing just _how_ far apart they are.

If Chat Noir notices her discomfort, he doesn’t entertain it. “If writing is the problem, I can do so for you.” 

Marinette hesitates. His eyes are earnest as he looks down at her, but it seems to be the sort of kindness she doesn’t expect to be given out freely by anyone, making her wonder if there’s an underlying price to it. 

_But… what more can I lose?_

“Alright,” Marinette agrees, albeit reluctantly. “Then if you could write what I have to say to him, I’d be grateful.” 

He nods and gestures at the door. “May I come in, then?” 

She frowns at the peculiar request. “It’s your castle.” 

“But it’s _your_ room, m’lady.” 

_My room._ She’s never had her own room, and despite herself, Marinette feels a small rush of excitement. “Come inside, then.” 

Chat Noir opens the door, and Marinette finds her breath taken away. 

It’s _beautiful,_ to say the least. A bed separates the room into two halves, larger than Marinette dares dream of and piled with blankets and pillows that promise sweet dreams and well-rested mornings. A hearth is already burning in the corner of the room, while beside it, a vanity with a golden gilded mirror. A wardrobe, couches lined with fur, a table, even a balcony—she can scarcely take it all in. And it’s all... _hers._

“Do you like it?” Chat Noir asks tentatively. As if he’s _nervous_ about it. 

His voice snaps her out of her reverie, and Marinette is pulled back into reality. 

“Marinette?” he prompts when she does not answer. 

“I—yes. Yes, I like it. It’s—” The right word does not surface. “—fancy.” 

Even with the mask, Marinette sees the ways his eyebrows furrow. “Is there something that’s not to your liking? If you prefer something bigger, it can be arranged. Let us finish your father’s letter first, then I can show you around the palace to pick—” 

“No,” Marinette interrupts hastily. “No, I really _do_ like it. I’m not accustomed to such things, that’s all.” She tries to smile at him. “The letter, please.” 

“Right.” Chat moves towards one of the shelves. A moment later, he has produced a paper and a quill, and gestures at the table. “After you.” 

Marinette finds herself sitting down next to him again as he smooths a piece of paper and dips the quill in the ink. It takes her a couple of seconds to realize that he’s waiting for her to start. 

Looking at the blank piece of paper and Chat Noir’s hands, poised to write, Marinette is reminded yet again of what she cannot do. She hates the shame that rises and obstructs her throat, seizing words and ripping them out of her mouth, the feeling of inadequacy in the face of a _prince._

“Marinette?” Chat Noir leans down until she’s looking at him. 

Marinette swallows thickly. Fear still threatens to rear its ugly head, but she’s well acquainted with shutting it out. So she takes the thoughts, all poison and blight, shoving them into the cobwebbed crevices of her mind and straightens her back. 

“ _Dear Papa,”_ she instructs. Her voice comes out clear and strong. 

The pen glides across the page in beautiful cursive. Mesmerized, Marinette watches until it stops, then it dawns on her that he is waiting for her next words. 

“ _Don’t worry about me.”_

Ink on paper, black lines bleeding through white like _dancing._ Chat Noir’s writing swirls, dips, curves beautifully _,_ and Marinette wishes wishes _wishes_ she could do the same. 

“ _I’m sorry that I had to leave so suddenly, but I’ll be back soon.”_ Marinette pauses. A whimsical hope, that one. As good as a lie. But he doesn’t have to know that. 

“Chat Noir,” she says suddenly instead of continuing. 

The quill stops. “I don’t suppose you’d like me to write that?” There’s a faint hint of teasing in his tone that Marinette chooses to ignore. 

“How many people have tried to break the curse before me?” 

“Some.” Now his voice is careful, like he’s treading on thin ice.

“Some,” Marinette echoes. “How many is _some_ ? And all of them—they _all_ failed?” 

“Six before you, Marinette, but it won’t do you any good to worry about them. It’s all in the past now.” 

There is a faint sharpness in his tone that wasn’t there before. She recognizes pain when she hears it; it’s a universal language, after all, to illiterate bakers’ daughters and princes all the same.

So Marinette drops the topic and returns to the letter. There’s only a few lines written, but she can’t imagine what more she can say to him.

“ _I love you,”_ she concludes, hating how her voice trembles and her throat closes up. “Um, I can—I can sign my name.” 

Chat Noir dutifully hands her the quill. Marinette’s own handwriting is shaky and undignified next to his, and heat blossoms on her cheeks when she feels his eyes trained on her as she struggles to spell out something as simple as her own name. 

Then it is finished. Chat Noir takes the letter and tucks it in his pocket. “You really don’t want to see him one last time?”

If he asks her again, Marinette is afraid she’ll cave in. “I’m alright,” she reassures him politely. “Thank you, though.” 

Chat Noir nods at her. “I’ll take my leave then, m’lady. Make yourself at home.” 

_Home._ The word brings an unwelcome lump to her throat, and for that, Marinette cannot bring herself to respond. 

_________

Marinette sees her father from the balcony. 

It overlooks the courtyard of the castle, a garden of roses and thorns. In the center, a fountain stands, looking as if it hasn’t seen water in years. And it is down the cracked path, leading towards the white city, that a man in black and gold walks next to another with worn, threadbare clothing like her own, braving the cruelly bitter wind. 

Her father doesn’t turn around to look at the castle, so Marinette only sees his back as they walk away. She wonders what he will say, how he will react when he sees that she is not home, when he reads the letter that she had borrowed Chat Noir’s hand to write. 

Marinette watches until they are lost in the maze of crumbled, white houses, and even then, she strains to catch even just a glimpse of him. Although she tells herself not to, she still can’t help but think that this may be—very likely—the last time she sees her father. Between her and the bakery lies not just the Wanderwoods but the curse that she must break—a curse that she has no idea _how_ to break. It is a yawning chasm, an unscalable mountain, and a shattered promise all the same.

She watches the courtyard until she sees Chat Noir return through the gates, this time alone. Then, burying her head in her knees, Marinette allows herself to cry. 

_________

It turns out that crying in a luxurious room is the same as crying anywhere, because Marinette doesn’t feel any less miserable although she’s sitting on the most comfortable bed she’s ever known.

She sobs until the tears run out and her eyes hurt from the rubbing. Then, for a little while, Marinette lies listlessly on the bed and stares at the ceiling. She’s torn between despair and angrily desperate—there _must_ be a way to break the curse, right? Her thoughts pivot nauseatingly from one end to the other until she’s dizzy and frustrated. 

Is there a point to try? What happens if she runs? A thousand unanswered questions pile and pile until they seem to weigh physically on Marinette’s chest and steal her breath away. 

The sharp knock on the door snaps her out of her thoughts. Marinette sits up, mind immediately flying to Chat Noir. Has he come to look for her again? 

“Yes?” she calls tentatively. 

“May I come in?” The voice is distinctly feminine—apparently _not_ the prince, Marinette realizes in belated surprise. “I’ve been sent to check on you.” 

Marinette climbs off the bed. Without her stockings and shoes, she realizes just how soft the carpet is beneath her feet—then shakes off the distraction so she can unlock the door and peer outside. 

A girl stands in front of her room. It’s hard to tell her age with the mask that sits over her face, but she can’t be _that_ far from Marinette. Her hair is a fiery red, tumbling down in rich, pretty curls that are styled fashionably around the fox mask. She’s dressed just as prettily, in orange robes of billowing sleeves and silk and grace. 

“Hello,” Marinette greets warily, scanning the hallway behind her. There is no one else there. 

“You look shocked,” the fox girl says. 

“I didn’t know there were other… inhabitants in the castle apart from Chat Noir. I’m, um—is there anything I can help you with?”

She jerks her head towards Marinette’s room. “I’ll be your handmaid for your stay here. Chat sent me up here to make sure you’re comfortable and help you get washed up and changed. He wants to dine with you later on. You’re probably hungry, right?” 

Marinette blinks. “He wants to _dine_ with me?” Then, another important question surfaces. “You’re my _handmaid?”_

“Yes, to both of those questions.” Her eyebrow arches. “Would you like somebody else to serve you? I’m sure that can be readily arranged. I can also let the prince know you would rather eat alone, although I’m afraid that may be a little less simple—” 

“No!” Marinette blurts, a little too loudly. “I meant no disrespect. It’s just that I didn’t expect anybody to serve me. I’m not a—I’m just a baker’s daughter. Not really anyone important.” 

“You’re the prince’s guest, and that makes you important. Now, may I come in?” 

Still confused but more so frightened of offending her, Marinette steps aside in resignation. The girl heads straight towards the closet and throws the doors open wide while Marinette trails uncertainly behind her. 

“What’s your name?” she questions. 

There’s a pause. Finally, she says, “Rena Rouge. You can just call me Rena.” 

… _Oh._ Just like Chat Noir, then. Marinette files her questions about the curse in the back of her mind for a more fitting time. “Why does the prince want to dine with me?” she settles with asking. 

“Chat’s a lot of things, but he’s not a terrible host,” Rena replies absentmindedly, still thumbing through clothing in the closet. “which means he’ll at least _tries_ to be hospitable to his guests. Now, which of these colors do you like better?” 

She holds up two dresses to Marinette. One is midnight blue, speckled with silver like stars, billowing from waist down like clouds. Another is red—bright, bright crimson—tightening at the hips then flaring out underneath. It’s marked with gold in intricate patterns that span from one shoulder to waist then down to the skirts, a mix of traditional and courtly, the sort of dress Marinette would’ve marvelled at and dreamed of wearing in her own little fairytale. 

But reality isn’t a fun game of playing princess, of happily-ever-afters and charming princes that will whisk her off her feet. Reality is the absence of her mother in the form of a dull ache that’s never subsided; it’s the constant poverty and cold and hunger she and her father have dealt with for years. Now, even _with_ a castle and a prince, reality is still cruel. And if she wants to survive it, she must play her role accordingly. 

“They’re both pretty,” Marinette tells Rena, and she means it. “But is there something simpler I could wear?” 

“Simpler?” Rena frowns. “Are you certain? I think the red would look good on you.” 

Marinette nods and tries for a smile. “I’m sure.” 

Rena shrugs. “Alright. How about I pick a dress for you, and you go wash up? You look like you could use a hot bath right now.”

  
A hot bath _does_ sound nice. “Alright,” Marinette consents. “Where should I go?” 

Rena gestures towards a door at the very end of the room—one that Marinette hadn’t even noticed—and resumes her searching. 

Marinette practically flees for it. 

Inside, the bathroom is as luxurious as the bedroom: the floors are tiled, holding shelves that are layered with towels and soaps, their scents already wafting towards her. The ground dips into a pool of water with steam rising out of it, and without another moment of delay, Marinette strips of her clothing and sinks into the hot bath. 

On particularly cold days, her father would warm hot baths for her, and Marinette would sit in it until the warm had all trickled and her skin turned wrinkly. Now, the water soothes her aching muscles and the steam clouds all her thoughts until even the angriest, most frightened ones have blunted edges and hurt a little less. The warmth is lovely, all-encompassing, and Marinette thinks that if she closes her eyes, perhaps everything will turn out to be just a dream. 

She really could’ve stayed forever if it weren’t for the harsh rapping against the door. Rena’s voice shouts, “Marinette? I’m coming inside!” 

Marinette scrambles for the towels. “Wait!” 

A pause. Then, “I thought you passed out and drowned.” 

Marinette grimaces. “I’m still alive. Sadly.” 

“You can be sad about it at dinner. The prince is expecting you soon. Can you come out now?” 

She secures the towel around herself, giving the bath one last longing look, and slips back into the bedroom where the temperature drops and goosebumps rise on her skin. 

Rena is waiting back at the bed, holding a pile of clothing. Wordlessly, she thrusts out a dress into Marinette’s face. “This one’s a simple one,” is all she says, holding a wine colored dress up. 

When she doesn’t move, Rena folds her arms over her chest. “What are you waiting for?” she asks. 

Marinette shifts her weight. “Aren’t you going to… look away?” 

Looking genuinely mystified, Rena shakes her head. “I’m waiting to help you dress.” 

Marinette gapes. “I can dress myself!” 

She receives another bewildered look before Rena turns around with her hands raised placatingly. “Suit yourself. Is this better now?” 

A little embarrassed by her outburst, Marinette dresses as quickly as she can, fumbling over the buttons that line the side. The fabric is unfamiliarly soft, undoubtedly expensive, but Marinette doesn’t give herself time to admire it before she’s pulling the cloak on as well. It’s all uncharted territory—the lavish style, the softness of the cloth, how unblemished it is with no hints of patchwork. 

Rena finally turns back around. She scans Marinette head to do, lips pulled in a contemplative line, before she gestures towards the vanity. “The red dress would still be better,” she says. “But if you’re more comfortable with this, then that’s fine with me. Sit down and I’ll do your hair.” 

Marinette settles down without any more protest. A girl with pale skin and too-big eyes looks back at her in the mirror, sticking out like a sore thumb in an environment she clearly is not suited for. The dress and cloak are both finely made, but Marinette feels like a stain-glass imitation of the real thing. Even the so-called handmaid behind her is more vibrant, shining in reds and oranges and bronze, while she… 

Rena tugs and twists her hair. “You have lovely hair,” she compliments. “I wish mine were darker.” 

Marinette blinks in surprise. “Really? But yours is such a nice shade.” 

“I’ve always wanted darker hair.” Rena sighs, and Marinette watches as she begins piling her locks at the top of her head. “Chin up, shoulders back. You’re pretty, Marinette. Own it.” There’s a twinkle in her eye that wasn’t there before. “It’s not a sin to enjoy what the palace has to offer when you try to break the curse. There, I’m already finished.” 

Marinette peers at her reflection once more. From the regal way her hair is pinned, the simple elegance of the dress and cloak, all the dirt and dust from the forest washed from her face, she has to admit that she _does_ look slightly different. She straightens her shoulders like Rena instructs, lifts her chin. A necklace is placed around her neck—simple, with a red gem clasped in gold, shining in the faint light. Rena brushes a stray strand of hair aside. "There we go." 

“Thank you,” she tells Rena. 

“It was my job,” is the simple reply she gets. “Now, are you ready to go?” 

Marinette swallows. “Yes.” 

Rena gives her a light pat on the back. “Enjoy your meal, darling,” she chirps, and then her mouth lifts into a wicked little grin. “And I’m sure you’ll enjoy Chat Noir’s company as well.” 

“I'll try,” Marinette replies drily, managing to mirror the smile. And on that note, she’s ushered out the door in all her finery and regalia to meet the prince. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, feedback is encouraged (and loved)! 
> 
> Fun fact: this chapter was edited at least 5 times because I was having trouble with Marinette's character :') You're reading a very, very cut down version of Marinette's thoughts lol. but hfskjdhf i'm so excited to develop everyone's characters!! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [e-milieeee!](https://e-milieeee.tumblr.com/)


	3. black, green, gold

When Rena leads Marinette through the palace, she’s surprised that it doesn’t take more than five minutes for them to arrive at their destination. 

Chat Noir is waiting for her at the door. His eyes sweep over her for a brief second before they fix on Rena, and the corners of his lips curve into a slight smile. “Thank you,” he tells her simply. 

Rena nods at him. She pats Marinette’s shoulder once before spinning on her heel and flouncing off in a swirl of orange and red, leaving Marinette alone with Chat Noir, whose full attention returns to her. 

She forces herself to meet his gaze. He is gold and black, day and night, and even with the new dress and jewels, Marinette feels completely out of place standing in front of him. 

He offers her a smile. “You look lovely,” he compliments. 

Marinette involuntarily stiffens. She wonders if perhaps he’s mocking her in his own little way. Perhaps it’s wrong to label him when she isn’t anywhere close to understanding him, but she doesn’t particularly trust cursed princes to hand out compliments to poor girls out of the kindness of their hearts. 

But like usual, his eyes are earnest, and there isn’t a hint of insincerity on his face. He’s either being genuine or he’s a well practiced liar, and Marinette decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Thank you,” she replies. 

The doors are pushed open. “After you, m’lady.” 

She pauses to take in the room in front of them before stepping in. 

Like the rest of the palace, it’s lit by torches and candles. A fire roars cheerfully in the corner, the carpet is lush and soft, and a square dining table sits in the middle of the room. It’s not as large as Marinette imagined, but compared to the one she and her father share at home, it’s sizable. Still, not quite what she would’ve expected a prince to dine in—unlike the chandeliers and grand hall she pictured, this is more… homely. 

“I hope it’s to your liking,” Chat Noir notes from behind her, and Marinette flinches back when she feels his arm brush against hers. She’s about to ask what he’s doing when he pulls her chair out from under the table. 

It _feels_ wrong for him to perform this sort of gesture to _her_ , but Marinette sits down anyway. Chat Noir takes the seat across from her. 

The silence that blankets over them is so heavy and tense that Marinette is afraid something is going to shatter. It’s the silence of unsaid words, the most burdensome kind of quiet that is loud and fragile and unbreakable at the same time. So she sits in front of the man who has sealed her fate seething with anger and blame that doesn't truly belong to him, but anger and blame that Marinette nonetheless cannot bring herself to disperse. She knows enough not to snap at him that it's his fault, but not so well that she can simply release the grudge. 

It is Chat Noir who clears his throat and wades through the muck of misery and apprehension to extend an olive branch. “Are you hungry?” he asks. 

Marinette shrugs. “I’m alright.” 

It’s a partial truth; she _is_ hungry, but the gnawing pain in her stomach isn’t anything that’s new to her. 

“I’m not sure what you like to eat,” Chat Noir continues, “so I had the cook make a couple of things. Do you have a favourite?” 

She ponders the question. “I like baked goods in general,” Marinette finally decides. Then, as an afterthought, she asks, “You?” 

“I don’t really have a favourite,” Chat Noir replies a bit sheepishly. “It all… tastes the same after a while.” 

The conversation halts abruptly there. They sit in uncomfortable silence until the door is pushed open, and a woman (masked; Marinette tells herself she ought to stop being so surprised) steps inside with two others behind her, all carrying dishes concealed by silver cloches. Two are set down before Marinette, two in front of Chat Noir, and the woman fills up their glasses with a golden liquid that catches the light and seems to shimmer like stardust in their cups. Then the little party leaves after a sweeping bow to the prince, and they are left alone. 

One plate is piled high with meats of all assortments, breads and greens and everything Marinette can imagine—then even more she _can’t_ even imagine. The other plate holds a fragrant bowl of soup with steam still rising cheerfully from the top. The cutlery is made of shining gold. 

It almost seems ridiculously lavish. How ironic, Marinette thinks, for her to be presented the most filling, richest meal of her life only for her stomach to churn uncomfortably at the sight of food. What she wouldn’t have given last winter to have such a meal? Now, she’d trade it in a heartbeat just to sit next to the hearth with her father eating baked potatoes and perhaps a leftover pastry. 

“Is it… not to your liking?” Chat Noir asks when she doesn’t make a move to pick up the utensils. “I can ask the cooks for something else if you’d rather—” 

“No,” Marinette interrupts hurriedly. “No, it’s fine. I’ve never seen so much… food before.” 

The look she receives is a mixture of shock and pity. Hating both elements of it, she digs her fork into the food and hopes he won’t continue pursuing the topic. 

Thankfully, Chat Noir doesn’t. Wordlessly, he starts cutting his own meat too, and the dreaded silence settles once more. Marinette takes her time to eat, and although the meal should’ve been mouthwatering, each bite turns to ash in her mouth. She leaves the drink untouched, eying the golden liquid dubiously. 

It is, unsurprisingly, Chat Noir who speaks up again. In her periphery, she watches the practiced flick of his wrist as he cuts his food, although she refuses to stare at him no matter how much she wants to. “Marinette,” he says. 

There’s something about the way he says her name; smooth and polished like gold. He makes it sound like something exquisite, something _more_ than she is, and Marinette doesn’t know if she likes or hates it. He tilts his head, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the table. It’s a casual gesture, but something about it is strangely charming. “We never had any proper introductions. I don’t know much about you except your name.” 

Marinette stabs at her plate a little too hard, and the screech of metal against china echoes in the small room. “I don’t know anything about _you_ except your name either, Chat Noir.” 

His mouth curves into a grin. “I’ll trade you an answer for an answer.” 

It’s the challenging lilt of his tone that does it for Marinette and sparks her curiosity. She leans forward as well. “Fine. I’ll go first. How long have you been here, under the curse?” 

He doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Seven years, nine months, and twelve days.” 

Even with the impassive expression on his face, Marinette can’t help but start with surprise. If he sees her reaction, he does well ignoring it, instead asking, “How old are you?” 

“Eighteen.” A strangely mundane question, but she doesn’t linger on it. “Is there anybody in the question who _isn’t_ masked?” 

“No, there isn’t. Where are you from?” 

“Riviera. It’s a small town bordering the Wanderwoods. What happened to the city outside the castle?” 

“I don’t know,” Chat Noir replies, but this time, he doesn’t immediately jump to answer like he had done the two times before. He turns to look at the hearth, the shining gold on the edge of his mask catching the light. “I assume it’s… the curse. But I don’t remember that has happened before.” He looks back at her. “What’s the most interesting fact about yourself, Marinette?”

It’s hard to bring back the pace of the conversation after such a heavy admission, but Marinette feels obliged to do at least _something_ to wipe off the dark expression on his face. “There’s not many interesting things about myself,” she replies. “But once, when I was really young, the daughter of the most powerful man in our town stole my toy. I shoved her into a pile of mud, then again to make sure she stayed down.” 

Chat Noir’s breath escapes him in a huff, and it takes Marinette a second to realize that he had just tried to stop his laugh. “You?”

“Yes, why not?” 

“It doesn’t seem to be something you’d do, m’lady.” 

Marinette finds herself grinning involuntarily. “What _did_ you expect of me, _prince?”_

He laughs this time, fully and openly, and Marinette can’t help but think that his laugh is lovely and contagious. Her own laugh rises to her throat… 

… then is smothered by an underlying sense of dread that seems to have taken up a permanent residence in the pit of her stomach. It simply feels _wrong,_ to dine and laugh with him and slip up and forget what her real task is. 

“My turn,” she says in a controlled tone, successfully having forced her laughter down. “What’s your real name? I don’t suppose Chat Noir is what you were born with.” 

The smile slips from his face as quickly as it came. “My real name?” he echoes. “I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know your real name?” 

“Neither I, nor the rest of the residents in this castle do.” His tone has become crispier. “Our memories have all been taken and forgotten. If you happen to fail, your name would be erased from our minds and your own as well.” 

The room suddenly seems to drop in temperature as the gravity of his reminder sinks in, and the rest of Marinette’s appetite leaves her as well. She looks at her barely-touched plate, looks across at the prince, and the illusion of smiles and laughter and friendliness shatters like broken glass. _Who am I kidding?_

“I see,” she says, grimly satisfied by the calm, frosty way her voice comes out. “Is there anything else about the curse I should know and you haven’t told me?” 

He blinks as if taken back by her tone. “Not that I know of. There’s not much I know about the curse either, but there might be something in the archives that I haven’t yet found. If you’d like me to take you there, I can—” 

“I’m tired,” Marinette interrupts quietly. “I’d like to go back to my room now.” 

Chat Noir’s hand freezes in midair. For a moment, a deep rooted fear arises that she had offended him, but she shakes the feeling off. It feels—no, it _is_ wrong and wastefully lavish to sit here and enjoy a meal with the prince when time is slipping away like water. 

Then the prince schools his face into an amiable smile. “Of course,” he says. “Would you need me to escort you to your room?” 

***

Marinette vows to learn the palace layout so she can stop having people escort her everywhere. 

Chat Noir drops her off at her room, bids her a quick goodnight, and leaves. His expressions are hard to tell as they are with the mask, but Marinette thinks that he looks particularly guarded when she reluctantly repeats the words back to him and shuts her door. 

The closet contains a vast assortment of nightgowns (why royalty thinks it necessary to sleep in such irritatingly fancy clothing is beyond Marinette). She thumbs through them and the rest of the clothing before choosing one and climbing into bed again, drowning in blankets and pillows and silk. 

Outside, the sun is beginning to fall. As her room darkens, Marinette stares at the ceiling and thinks of the strange, inhuman prince and his strangely human laughter. 

It was nice, his laugh and his smile, and she regrets it just a little that she had shut it down so quickly. 

***

Marinette’s dreams are turmoil; they are memories and nightmares mixed into one until she cannot tell them apart from each other. 

She sees her father and mother in a blur of confusion, when life had been smiles and warmth despite the cold, laughter puffed out in white clouds of air. Then she sees her father, alone, where cold had just been cold and not rosy cheeks and snowmen, and winter had been even heavier and harder than it was before. The image is blurred by a brushstroke of black and gold, and suddenly, Chat Noir replaces the visage of her father until it is all she can see and all she knows. 

A single rose wilts in a glass cage. A broken, deserted city of white dusty and crumpled buildings. A monster of shadows and red eyes that threatens to swallow her whole. Marinette is frozen until it reaches her and they stand face to face, and suddenly its eyes are not red but green, and the black shifts into swirls of gold. It’s rises, all-encompassing, like spilled ink on paper, and Marinette can only watch as the darkness swallows her whole, and—

She snaps awake in a cold sweat, heart pounding in her throat and panic settling in the base of her spine. For a moment, Marinette has no clue where she is—in a foreignly soft and warm bed—and then it all comes tumbling back. 

The palace. Chat Noir. The curse. 

And the undeniable gnawing of hunger in her stomach. 

Outside, through the glass doors of the balcony, a half-moon hangs in the otherwise dark sky. Marinette takes a couple moments to calm her breathing before allowing herself to settle back into the pillows and pulling the duvet over her body. 

The cooing of an owl makes her open her eyes. The wind whispers against the windows. All of a sudden, despite the comfort, Marinette is hit with the realization of how large and spacious the room really is and how that translates into a frightful emptiness. Adding the insistent feeling of hunger, sleep slips like water from her grasp, leaving her wide-eyed and awake, staring at the canopy over her bed. 

Judging from the position of the moon, it’s sometime around midnight—far from dawn, when Marinette usually wakes. 

For a little while, she attempts to sleep, but it refuses to come to her until Marinette has all but woken herself more through frustration. In the end, she finds herself fastening the cloak around her neck before slipping outside to the balcony. 

The rush of cool air makes Marinette shiver, but it’s nothing she isn’t accustomed to. Moonlight bathes the courtyard in front of her and the white city, where it seems to gleam impossibly bright in the faint light. Behind the city, in the far distance, lies the dark rise of the Wanderwoods, stretching for miles and miles for as far as Marinette can see. She tries to peer further, to spot a hint of another border where Riviera would lie, where her father had hopefully returned home, but there is nothing but shadow, as if the outside world did not exist at all. As if the castle existed in a separate world of its own, isolated from the rest by the curse and the forest. 

Marinette returns to her room when she feels numbness creeping into her fingers and her toes. When her stomach’s growling grows even more insistent, she decides to leave her room in search of food. 

With a candle in one hand, she lugs open the heavy double doors of her room with another. It produces a noise that sounds like a thunderclap in the silence, and Marinette winces as she steps outside into the halls where candles flicker eerily and ventures into the palace. 

It doesn’t take long for Marinette to lose her way. 

She tells herself it’s partially because she’s never been in such a huge building, where the passages are mazes and rooms are dead ends. They all look the same; the only differentiation is the paintings which hang on the walls. A couple minutes later, Marinette swears the eyes of the people in the paintings have begun tracking her. 

The palace is strangely devoid of servants as well. It had been empty in the daytime, but she and Rena had passed at least _some_ people. Now, it is as though the whole place is holding its breath, and all the residents have retreated into nothingness, and Marinette is the only one who exists. The emptiness presses in, threatening to take her too, and Marinette hurries her steps. 

It’s when she turns the corner that she crashes into somebody. 

Marinette stumbles backwards with a yelp, dropping her candle. The wax splashes against the floor a moment before she hits the ground as well, knocked over by the person she had bumped into. 

He lets out an exclamation of surprise, and it takes Marinette a moment to realize that the edge of the carpet had caught fire from her candle. There’s a scramble as the stranger starts to beat the flames out, and a couple of seconds later, she’s sprawled in still-lingering surprise while he’s kneeling over the smoking rug. 

The embarrassment kicks in a little bit too late. Marinette is properly mortified with herself as she scrambles for words. “Sorry!” she blurts to the stranger, torn between looking at him and the smoldering carpet. “I didn’t mean to—I’m stupidly clumsy sometimes and—” 

He turns around, and all of Marinette’s words dry up in her mouth. 

It’s nothing to do with the fact that he’s heart-stoppingly handsome. With gorgeous green eyes and golden hair, he’s _beautiful—_ but that’s exactly it. She can see his eyes, yes, but his nose, his mouth, his _face._ There is no mask to hide his features, and the wide-eyed surprise in her own face is mirrored in the boy’s own. 

For a couple of moments they stare at each other before he gets to his feet with more grace than Marinette could’ve mustered. A smile—a lovely, _real_ smile—crosses his face as he offers a hand to her. 

Marinette accepts, and his hand wraps around hers as he pulls her up. 

The robes he wears are simple; servant’s robes, like the others she had seen from the kitchen staff when she and Chat Noir had dined together. She barely focusses another second on his clothing before she’s gaping at his face again. 

_Unmasked._ Someone else in the palace is unmasked—Chat Noir had been _wrong._

“Sorry,” she manages shakily. “I wasn’t expecting—well, I didn’t think there was anyone out here at this time.” 

He smiles at her again. “I should be the one apologizing, knocking you over like so,” he replies. His voice is lovely as well, like his smile and his eyes and everything else about him. “Uh, I…” He trails off, instead sticking his hand out to her. Marinette takes it yet again, still too shocked to form a proper sentence. 

The firelight seems to dance in his green eyes like stars. “My name is Adrien Agreste,” he says. “What’s yours?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... ta da! surprise!!! who's adrien??? guess we'll find out!!! 
> 
> i'm so excited to write Marichat's relationship fhsjdfhljKDHf the dinner scene was kinda hard but like.. hehe 
> 
> As always, feedback is lovely and well appreciated! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [e-milieeee!](https://e-milieeee.tumblr.com/)


	4. night (is not just darkness)

Marinette thinks she has completely lost all ability to speak. 

The boy—Adrien, _Adrien Agreste_ —is still holding her hand in a longer-than-normal handshake, obviously waiting for the reply she’s struggling to form. The only that manages to connect is the fact that he has a _real_ name, with features open and not obscured by a mask, more human than anyone else Marinette has yet met in the palace. Questions pool in like a flood—is he like her, trying to break the curse? Is he trapped in the palace as well, snared by Chat Noir’s curse? 

“Hey, are you okay?” Adrien’s head dips down a bit so he can look her in the eyes. The grip on her hand loosens and travels to her shoulders instead. 

By some miracle, Marinette manages to stammer out, “I’m fine.” 

(Her uneven voice has got nothing to do with the gorgeous green eyes; it’s because of the lack of a mask. That’s it.) 

He returns her reply with a smile. The hands leave her shoulders, and Marinette finds herself missing the warmth that had come with them. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” apologizes Adrien. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be around here at this time. I, um—what’s your name?” 

“Marinette,” she replies. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng.” 

His eyebrows rise ever so slightly; the only visible sign of surprise. “Are you here to break the curse?” Adrien asks. 

_The curse._ Like usual, the topic is a heavy damper; like a knee-jerk reaction that brings Marinette painfully back into reality. But at least Adrien’s presence is an improvement, even if she has no idea what it means now that she’s not the only one without a mask and with a name. 

“I am,” she responds. “Are you?” 

He shakes his head. “I’m just a servant.” 

“I thought all the servants had masks…?” 

“The curse worked on me a little differently. But I don’t… I don’t have any of my memories either, if that’s what you want to know. All I remember is my name.” 

Marinette tries to ignore how her heart drops at those words, and she tells herself that it’s still better than nothing. Adrien Agreste’s presence doesn’t make sense, and it goes against everything Chat Noir had told her. It’s a step closer, even if she has no idea where to place this new puzzle piece. 

Before Marinette can ask more about the curse, Adrien speaks first. “What are you doing wandering around at this time of night, Marinette?” 

Marinette pauses. For a moment, she forgets all about replying: her name sounds so _lovely_ the way he says it, short and light and sweet and oddly _familiar—_ and then she snaps back into focus and decides to tell Adrien the truth. “I woke up hungry, and wanted to grab a bite of something before going back to sleep. But then I got lost.” 

He tilts his head. “Not many people choose to wander around the palace at this time of night, and I’m uncertain if there is much left in the kitchen. I can take you there, though.” 

There’s something about him that’s captivating. Not in the same sense Chat Noir is; the prince is like gravity itself, pulling one towards him in his mannerisms, his voice, his features even if she wants to keep her distance. Adrien Agreste has a warm way of speaking and smiling that makes Marinette lean it voluntarily, on her own accord, and the careful curiosity that arises is inevitable. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s different: maskless, yes, but it’s in the way that even the harsh firelight fails to steal the warm kindness from his features; it’s how _open_ he is when he speaks, leaving nothing to be second-guessed behind his words. And in the maze of nameless faces and frightful, ancient magic, Marinette decides that she likes Adrien Agreste. 

“Alright,” she agrees. “Lead the way, then.” 

____________

“You’ve only been here for a day?” Adrien is asking.

They carry out a light conversation, one that is full of questions that are easy to answer and only skims surface-deep. Marinette loses her way quite quickly as he takes her down to the kitchens, but for once, she doesn’t quite mind the maze of corridors. 

“It’s a day if you count the time I spent unconscious,” she replies a bit sheepishly. “I hit my head trying to escape from the shade, back at the forest’s edge.” 

“You met a shade?” Adrien’s eyes are wide. “How did you manage to get away?”

“I think—well, I suppose that it was Chat Noir that saved me. But I don’t remember much.” 

“Ah.” Adrien tucks his hands into his pocket. “Then you found out your father was also trapped here? That’s a pretty big coincidence.” 

Marinette nods. She’s told him a condensed version of the events, carefully leaving out details that are too painful to retell. Adrien takes in her story quietly, even if his reactions are all visible through his expressions. “With any luck, _Papa_ is back in Riviera now.”

For a little while, Adrien remains silent. Then, he says, “That was really brave of you.” 

Her heart tugs at his words; _brave?_ It doesn’t feel like bravery, and if it _is,_ bravery tastes a lot more bitter than she expects. “I just did what had to be done,” she manages out. “It wasn’t really… anything else.” 

“Not many people would’ve made the same choice, especially knowing all those consequences. It was brave, Marinette. _You’re_ brave.” 

“You barely know me.” 

Adrien smiles at her. “I suppose not,” he replies, “but I still stand with what I said. Anyway, we’re here.” 

The meaning of his words take a couple seconds to sink in, and Marinette realizes that it’s the kitchens he’s talking about. The doors are a lot less fancy; instead of carved redwood, these contain no pattern, loose on their hinges for easier access. Light seeps out from the cracks in the door, and Adrien pushes them open. 

It has to be the largest kitchen Marinette has ever seen, so large she can barely take it in, even though that can be said about everything in the palace. With pots and pans and glasses and pottery that she can’t even dream of, the place looks exactly like her father’s sort of paradise. Although the stove and oven have long been extinguished, a hearty glow of fire from a furnace crackles in the corner of the room. Despite the size and the emptiness, there’s still a cozy feel to it, one that reminds Marinette of home. 

“There’s not a lot of food left,” Adrien tells her. “We could check the storages, but most of the time, the cooks aren’t up until first light. That is, unless you want to eat plain flour…” 

Marinette considers it. “If there’s flour, I can make something.” 

“Make something?” 

“My father’s a baker,” she explains. “I’ve picked some things up along the way.” 

“Ah!” Adrien’s face lights up, and he beams at her, boyishly excited. “Baking, _right—_ I never thought of that. Do you think I can help?” 

It’s a strange question, and stranger still is how excited he seems about it, but Marinette doesn’t think she can even _try_ to refuse the expression on his face. “Of course you can help.” 

A couple of minutes later, Marinette is attempting to teach Adrien how to roll dough. They stand shoulder to shoulder, kneading the flour on a cutting board that stretches so big that it could easily be the size of her table back at home. 

Adrien’s terrible at it. By the time Marinette’s dough has reached her desired consistency and she sets it aside to rise, Adrien’s has somehow managed to make it too sticky, and it falls apart under his fingers. Hee holds out his palm to her, clumps clinging to his hands and a sheepish smile all over his face. “I think I did something wrong,” he tells her. 

Marinette stifles her laugh. “Too much water,” she suggests. 

Adrien begins to pick the clumps off his hand, transferring them to his dough-lump. “Is it salvagable?” 

“Barely,” Marinette jokes. He moves over so she can take another handful of flour, and she begins to work on his. “Have you never done this before?”

“No,” he mumbles. “I don’t really do stuff around the kitchen.” 

It doesn’t take Marinette long to fix it. Adrien watches at the side like he’s starstruck, and when Marinette sets his dough aside, he still hasn’t taken his eyes off her. 

A little embarrassed by the attention, she brushes the flour from her hands and tries to search for something in the room to stare at that isn’t his eyes. “It’s quite easy when you get the hang of it,” she tells Adrien. “I’m sure you’ll do better next time.” 

“Hopefully.” Adrien peers at her, forcing Marinette to meet his eyes. “Do you mean it, though? Next time?” 

“Next time…?” 

“I mean…” This time, it’s him who doesn’t meet her gaze. “This won’t be the last I see of you, right? You’re here for at least… at least a month?” 

Marinette freezes as the meaning of his words sink in. _Oh. He wants to see me again._

Looking at the hopeful expression, bright and earnest and more human than anyone else she’s met in the palace, Marinette mirrors his exact sentiment. “Y-yeah. Of course. I mean, I have a lot of time and I wouldn’t mind teaching you how to bake or just…anything, really. It’s nice to see another person without a mask, too.” 

His expression lights up with unconcealed happiness, before Adrien’s rubs his neck, looking slightly embarrassed. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s been a long time since I’ve really seen anybody else. I’m just—really excited to see you, if you couldn’t already tell.” 

Even though the words are warm, something about them brings a whisper of doubt. There’s something strange. “Don’t you see the other servants?” she asks. 

The way Adrien’s face darkens tells her she’s hit a sore spot. “No. It’s part of the curse.” 

“Chat Noir’s curse never mentioned that he couldn’t see other people,” Marinette blurts before she can stop herself. Mortification floods into her. She hadn’t meant to accuse him of anything. 

Adrien doesn’t look angry, although the smile he gives her tells that sadness bites a little harder than anger. “The curse worked a little differently on me, like you can see.” The words are a quiet admission, too loud to be a secret, yet carefully soft in a way that speaks of pain. Then he lifts his eyes to meet hers again. “I’ll tell you about it more next time,” he offers, then points at the dough. “Is that ready to be baked?” 

___________

When Adrien takes Marinette back to her room, exhaustion has crept up on her again. They’ve spent at least two hours together, exchanging small-talk and facts about themselves that they can afford, neither digging too deep into the parts that sting. Adrien loves playing the piano. His favorite color is red. He likes sweet better than savoury, to which Marinette promises that the next time they see each other, she’ll bake him a cake. Then they bid each other goodnight, a far cry from her farewell with Chat Noir: this one is sweet and full of promises of _next time_ and _tomorrow._

She falls asleep the moment her head hits the pillow. 

___________

Marinette wakes up to the sound of knocking on her door and the feeling of sunlight beaming lazily on her face. 

She hauls herself into a sitting position with the groan, trying and failing to rub the sleep from her eyes, while the banging grows even more consistent. Outside, a voice calls, “Marinette?” 

Even muffled, Marinette recognizes the lilt of Rena’s voice. “I’m here,” she calls back. 

“It’s almost midday, and Chat Noir sent me up to see if you were awake. He wants to show you around the palace.”

 _Midday._ The word rolls through Marinette in a wave of horror. Sure enough, when she peers outside the windows, the sun hangs high in the sky, nearing the highest step of its climb. 

She’d wasted practically _half a day._

“Give me a second!” Marinette yells at Rena, scrambling to kick off the duvet. “I’ll be ready soon! I overslept and—uh, it’ll just be a moment.” 

Thankfully, the closet boasts an abundance of clothing. Marinette throws on the first presentable thing she can find, takes a long swig of water, and rushes out of the door while fastening the cloak around her neck.

Rena’s eyebrows shoot up when she sees Marinette. “You really didn’t need to rush so much that you didn’t even have time to comb your hair,” she points out. “Neither me or Chat are short on time.” 

Marinette runs her fingers through her hair. It doesn’t feel _that_ messy. “ _I’m_ short on time,” she replies, a little sharper than she intends. 

Even with the mask, it’s obvious the way Rena’s features tighten. Marinette regrets the words the moment they come out, but it’s far too late to take them back: she can practically _see_ Rena drawing back into herself, until even the orange and red turn as cold as her expression. In a tightly controlled voice, she says, “Very well. I’ll take you to the prince, and make sure to let him know not to waste your time.” 

She turns on her heel without waiting for Marinette to follow, whose stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of having already upset Rena two minutes into the morning. It’s not the other girl’s fault in the slightest, and Marinette _knows_ that, but the whispering accusations at Rena, at Chat Noir, at _everyone_ in the palace seems to have a mind of its own. Everything _about_ the castle brings a vicious onslaught of bitterness for what it’s taken away from her, and it’s so much easier assigning a face to concentrate all the blame on. Even if it’s unjust. 

Marinette has to run to catch up with Rena. The other girl’s shoes clack against the floor as she moves in fluid steps, not casting one look over her shoulder until Marinette swallows her pride to apologize. “I’m sorry.” 

Rena still doesn’t turn around, but Marinette catches up enough so they walk side by side. “For what? It’s not _your_ fault you’re here.” 

“And it’s not yours either.”

“So who do you think is to blame? Chat Noir?” 

Marinette falters. Rena catches onto her hesitation immediately, because she says, “You don’t need to lie to me.”

“I _know_ he’s a victim to the curse as well, but it’s just—” 

“It’s just that he seems to be the center of it all?” Rena interrupts. “Trust me, Marintte, I understand, I really do.” 

She stops, and Marinette halts with her. Rena lifts her chin, takes a deep breath, then turns to look at her fully. “I tried to break the curse once and failed,” she tells her firmly. “I don’t have my memories of that time anymore, but since then, I’ve gotten to know Chat Noir, and he’s not a bad person. Although none of us have a clue on how the curse works—including him—you’re both going to be working together to find a solution, and it would be easier on the both of you if you attempted to get along with him. Or at least _tried_ to understand him.” She pauses. “A chance is all I’m asking for, Marinette. Just give him a chance.” 

_A chance._ Marinette thinks of the man she had sat across last night, who she had shared the extravagant meal with, who had cared about her preferences despite her status and made sure she was comfortable. It was _his_ curse that had trapped her father; now, it is _his_ curse that traps her. But isn’t he also the one who’d saved her from the shade, who’d provided her with everything she had needed? The line blurs and bends and dips until Marinette doesn’t know which side Chat Noir stands on. Until she doesn’t where _she_ stands. 

“Alright,” she tells Rena, whose expression lights up from behind the mask. “I’ll try.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm loving the contrast between adrien and chat LOL 
> 
> any theories for adrien/chat? :D 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [e-milieeee!](https://e-milieeee.tumblr.com/)


	5. poison, poison

Marinette meets Chat Noir in the grand hall, where a day ago, she had nearly bid him farewell. Sunlight slants through the stained glass in a kaleidoscope of colors—it looks different in her memories than it does now. 

Rena Rouge, like last time, drops her off before departing in a graceful flurry of her skirts, leaving Marinette alone with Chat Noir. Today, his robes are slightly different: they are still black and gold, but not the flowy, loose ones he had worn last night. Instead, these are tailored to a fine fit: the coat is tapered around the waist, lined with golden thread, while his black pants are tucked into polished boots. The ears on top of his head flick when Marinette approaches. 

“Morning,” he greets in a silk-and-honey voice. “Did you have a good night’s rest?” 

Marinette shifts her weight. She  _ does  _ feel well-rested despite the fact that she’d spent at least three hours awake with Adrien last night—a topic that she will have to bring up to Chat Noir. 

But all in due time, and that is not now. Rena’s request echoes in her ears— _ a chance is all I’m asking for— _ so Marinette swallows the lump of words in her throat and instead forms them into something else. “I did,” she replies. “Thank you.” 

“Rena made sure you had breakfast?” 

“When we passed by the kitchen, yes.” 

He nods, and it hits Marinette that he looks—nervous? Perhaps nervous is not the right word, but it’s the closest she can think of to describe him, from the flitting eyes to the anxious thrumming of his fingers against his side. 

Rena claims he is not a bad person, and Marinette wants to believe her. Really, she  _ can.  _ Chat Noir has been nothing but a generous host throughout her whole stay; he’s done or said nothing unkind, he’s catered to all her needs, and he’s made certain of her comfort. 

But it’s  _ so hard.  _ Even as she reminds herself of every good thing Chat Noir has done for her, they are all overshadowed by one, ugly fact: it is  _ his  _ curse that binds her here,  _ his  _ curse that threatens to steal her memories and take away everything she has. 

“Anyway,” Chat Noir says, breaking through Marinette’s thoughts. “I thought I could show you around the castle. I wouldn’t mind escorting you to wherever you needed, but I wasn't sure you wanted that, so it might be best for you to start learning the layout of the palace. It’s quite a maze around here if you’re unfamiliar, but once you get used to it, it’s actually quite simple.” 

“That would be nice,” Marinette admits, ignoring the niggling doubts at the back of her mind.  _ Give him a chance.  _

(She hadn’t expected  _ a chance  _ to be so difficult; it should’ve been easy with someone like Chat Noir, who is manners and consideration. So  _ why?)  _

“Follow me,” he tells her. 

He turns away in a sweep of golden midnight, and Marinette follows. This time, however, Chat Noir walks at a leisurely pace, one that she doesn’t have to struggle to keep up with. She falls in step with him easily as they head up the wide set of stairs. 

“Sometimes Rena hosts dances in the grand hall.” He stops to turn around, gesturing down. “I guess… well, she says a ballroom is to be used, curse or no curse. You might have the, ah,  _ pleasure _ —” he rolls the word around in his mouth like it tastes funny, “—to attend one of those.” 

Marinette peers at the hall, complete with stained glass, high rising arches and a domed ceiling, where a crystal chandelier hangs. She is standing in the ballroom that has been plucked right out of a storybook castle. “You don’t sound like you like Rena’s dances,” she observes. 

Chat Noir smiles, a little drily. “They can be rather over the top. Especially because she plans them with the most dramatic resident of the palace.” 

“You mean Rena isn’t?” 

He laughs, fully, head tilted back. Marinette catches a glimpse of the elongated canines. “No, surprisingly, it isn’t Rena. Quite a shock to me when she was dethroned. But don’t worry, you’ll meet her soon enough.” 

“You’re not going to tell me who she is?” 

“She’s a whole menace.” Chat Noir starts heading up the stairs again, although not before he shoots a sharp grin her way. “Anyway, this is one of the main corridors at the palace. This one—” he points right, “—leads to the east wing of the palace, where your room is, as well as many of the servants. The other side is the west wing, and it is where my chambers are, as well as the tower we first went up to seal the curse.” 

A torrent of now-familiar resentment floods through Marinette, but she quells it best she can. There’s no point getting angry every time Chat Noir mentions the curse; it’s a part of the reality she must accept, and the last thing she needs is for him to tread lightly around it the topic when she needs more answers. 

“Am I allowed to visit the tower?” she asks instead. 

Chat Noir blinks. “Yes, but you would need me to come with you. The tower does not allow entry if I am not present.” 

“Oh,” Marinette mumbles. “I see.” 

He winces slightly, and Marinette has to remind herself again to watch her tone. “Is there anywhere you would like to visit first? There’s the courtyard out front—your room looks over it, so I suppose you have already seen—but the back gardens of the palace are much more beautiful at this time of year, just before the first snow falls. There’s also the banquet hall, although I’m not certain there is much to see there without the food. I wanted to show you the scriptorium and the archives and the library as well, if you would like.” He pauses, frowning. “My apologies. I’m rambling.” 

Marinette shakes herself out of the trance. “No, it’s okay,” she mumbles. There seems to be no way of dispelling the awkward atmosphere. She wonders if this is how it will be: if it’s not tension, it’s this delicate, uncomfortable tiptoeing around each other. “Um, the gardens sound nice. And the library? Or the archives?” 

“Of course. Follow me.” 

They turn into the west wing. The main corridor is wider and more open than the maze Adrien had led her through last night, although in other aspects, it’s quite similar: embroidered rug, paintings of beautiful people sporting miserable, forced smiles (or no smile at all), landscapes of places that look too ethereal to exist, and lit by the light of the candles that never seem to run out. In these hallways, night and day do not matter—it is all the same. 

“Chat Noir.” Marinette is the first to break the silence. “How many rooms does this palace have?” 

He takes a couple seconds to think. “Hundreds? I’ve never bothered counting. Most are empty, especially in this wing.” He pauses, looks at her. “You don’t have to call me Chat Noir. Rena just calls me Chat and it feels less… formal. If you would like, that is.”

“Chat,” Marinette tries. “Alright.” 

She almost misses the smile that passes his face. It’s hidden quickly when he stops in front of a set of large doors. “This is where the archives are,” he says. “It used to be separate from the library, but the books have become interspersed since the curse happened. I think I might’ve lost my librarian, somehow.” 

When she doesn’t reply, he pushes the doors open, and Marinette’s breath dances away from her lungs. 

It’s  _ huge.  _ There is a circular chamber right in front of the entrance, but beyond that lies rows and rows of shelves, stacked high until they seem to brush against the ceiling. When Chat Noir mentioned the library, she’d expected something big, but not like  _ this.  _ She had once thought the archives in Riviera were large, but now she’s certain Riviera’s library holds but a speck to what Chat Noir’s seem to contain. 

“What’s that symbol?” 

Chat follows the direction of her finger. Carved deep into the ground, dyed red, forms a circular, complex pattern, almost like a stamp. The lines spiral and twist unto the edges, where they rise and dip to form images Marinette cannot understand. 

“I’m not certain.” Chat Noir is frowning. “I have seen it around in a couple of other places in the palace, but I assume it was an emblem of the royal family from before the curse.”

Marinette files the information away in the back of her head and carefully makes her way around the carving, heading towards the aisle directly across from them. Chat’s echoing footsteps tells her he is following close behind. 

The moment she steps between the shelves, she is brushed with the smell of paper and leather. It’s a strange scent, one of dust and age, redolent of once-fresh ink. Stranger still is it to think that all of these countless books treasure their own stories and information, like their own unique fingerprint. 

So many books, so many stories, yet she is unable to read a single one of them. Gingerly, she reaches towards the closest shelf and pulls out the first leather-bound copy. 

A cloud of dust follows its wake, and Marinette bursts into a fit of coughing, eyes watering. A hand runs soothingly down her back, patting until she recovers. 

By the time she straightens and turns around, Chat Noir has retracted his hand and moved a fair distance away from her. Marinette rubs her stinging eyes. “How long has it been since you’ve gone through these books, Chat Noi—Chat?” 

He shrugs. “Years? I haven’t been to this section of the library a lot. The archives are generally more concentrated on the east wing of the library, which is where it would be most likely to find information on the curse. These… many of these are storybooks and fairytales. There is not much use to them.” 

“Ah.” Marinette looks down at the book in her hand. 

The scribble of letters, marred in faded black ink, taunts her wickedly. The stories hum underneath her fingertips, teasing promises of  _ close-but-not-quite,  _ of  _ there-but-not-really. _

She would’ve given  _ anything  _ to be able to read just that book, yet Chat had deemed it of little use. Marinette gives one last longing look at the indecipherable scrawl of elegant loops that form the title before sliding it back into the shelves. A cloud of dust follows the motion, but this time, she’s prepared to turn her head away from it. 

“Marinette,” Chat Noir says at the same time as she asks, “Chat?” 

They blink at each other, surprised and then embarrassed. Marinette glances down. “Um, you go first.” 

“No, it’s okay.” Chat gestures at her. “You first, m’lady.” 

Marinette takes a deep breath. It’s now or never—she can’t keep pushing the questions back no matter how much she wants to when time itself is volatile, pressing her down with minutes and seconds. “You told me yesterday that everyone in the castle was masked.” 

“Yes, everyone but you. Why…?” 

So he  _ doesn’t  _ know about Adrien. Perhaps it’s not a good idea, after all, to bring it up. But it hadn’t been a secret, had it been? Marinette runs through her encounter with Adrien yesterday—none of his actions suggest that people  _ couldn’t  _ know he was unmasked. Or is Chat Noir pretending? The prince hasn’t exactly lied to her that she’s known, but he  _ has  _ omitted—or forgotten—to give her information, and Marinette is willing to bet that he has not told her everything he knows about the curse. 

“Marinette?” he prompts when Marinette doesn’t reply. 

She makes her decision. “There was a boy I met last night, and he didn’t have a mask.” 

Chat Noir’s whole body stiffens. “He didn’t have a mask?” he echoes, but with a harsher intonation in his words. “Are you certain?” 

“He had a name, too. Adrien. Adrien Agreste.” 

The prince is silent. He looks at her, green eyes slitted and disbelieving, lips pressed together in a thin line. At last, he manages out in a flinty voice, “That’s not possible.” 

Marinette folds her arms. “You don’t believe me?” 

“It’s not because of  _ you _ ,” Chat Noir corrects. “It’s just that it  _ can’t be  _ possible. I’ve been under the curse for seven years, Marinette. Almost eight. Believe it or not, I know the residents of this castle by heart, and there has never been someone who is unmasked, nor has kept their true name. It’s very possible the boy you met has taken an alias in the form of what seems to be a real name, but about the mask…you must’ve been mistaken.” 

“Adrien wasn’t lying about his name, and I certainly wasn’t  _ mistaken,”  _ Marinette snaps, her temper seething underneath her fingertips, begging to be let out. Rena’s words contain the fire, and she pushes the anger down and controls her voice. “Chat, I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not lying and I  _ know  _ what I saw.” 

His eyebrows furrow. Marinette can see the doubt stirring behind his green eyes, but finally, he lets out a long breath. “Alright. Can you prove it?” 

“Yes!” Marinette answers immediately, then winces at the sudden raise of her voice. “I met him last night in the halls and I’m sure I can find him again. He said he lost his memories, but he hasn’t exactly been cursed the same way as everyone else has. If I’m going to break this curse, I feel like something about him  _ has  _ to be key, or at least a hint.” 

“Wait.” Chat Noir leans forward. “You met him at night?” 

“I couldn’t sleep last night, so I found him then. Why does that matter?” 

“Could I possibly meet him—ah, Adrien during the day instead?” 

It’s her turn to frown. There’s something in Chat’s voice that she doesn’t understand, something behind the piercing green eyes that tell her there’s more to the story—Marinette just doesn’t know  _ what.  _ But she also knows that, like all the mysteries of the castle, stories aren’t unravelled easily.

“I don’t think Adrien can meet you during the day,” she replies. 

Marinette knows skepticism when she sees it, and she can see it now, behind the mask, from the twist of his lips to the way he looks at her. “Why?” 

“He says it’s part of the curse. He didn’t really explain it in full detail yesterday, but I’ll be able to find him tonight and we can figure out something from there.” 

“Marinette, I can  _ only  _ meet him during the day. Are you sure he cannot?” 

“Why can’t  _ you  _ meet him during nighttime?” It comes out accusatory, and Marinette doesn’t bother correcting her tone anymore. Her patience has worn thin, and Chat Noir is saying yet not  _ explaining,  _ and it frustrates her to wit’s end. 

Chat rubs his temples in a tired manner. “Look, I don’t think you understand. It’s part of the curse.” 

“Don’t quote my words back at me,” Marinette finally explodes at him, her temper fully snapping. Rena’s request be damned, she didn’t care anymore. “I  _ want  _ to help you break the curse, so why are you so doubtful about it? There’s a lead  _ right here,  _ so why are you trying to pretend it doesn’t exist? Can’t you either give me answers or just—just  _ trust me?”  _

Like oil poured onto the flames, Chat Noir’s green eyes alight. He doesn’t make any movements towards her, doesn’t raise his voice. Instead, his anger is the quiet sort, a threateningly type of calm. “You ask for my trust, yet do not extend the same courtesy to me.” 

“Maybe because you barely give me a reason to trust you,” Marinette flings back. The words are poison that burns her own tongue, but it’s worth the pain just to say it at him. All the rage and resentment spills out, and she no longer cares  _ what  _ it is that she accuses Chat of. “You ask me to break your curse but then you withhold important information from me. And don’t forget that it’s because of  _ your  _ curse that I’m stuck here. And it’ll be because of  _ your  _ curse if I never return home. This—this is  _ your fault.”  _

He starts forward at that. It’s only a small step before he restrains himself, like he has rooted himself to the ground by a leash of self-control that Marinette certainly does not have. “If you hate it so much here,” Chat Noir hisses, “maybe you should have never traded places with your father.”

Marinette glares at him, and Chat glares back, neither willing to yield. Her head spins, and all she can focus on is the angry prickle of pain at his words and how desperately she wants to hurt him back even more. “I took my father’s place because I love him,” she tells him, trembling. “I suppose  _ you  _ wouldn’t understand what that’s like,  _ Chat Noir.”  _

Without giving him so much as a chance to respond, Marinette storms off. 

It’s satisfying. Wickedly, viciously satisfying to be able to say such things, to see the collected demeanour of the prince crumble. But even after she gets all the hateful, cruel words out, her resentment doesn’t cease: instead, it grows and grows until the brief reprieve turns to lead in her veins and the only thing left is the crushing weight of guilt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've decided to have (slightly) shorter chapters of around 2.5k-3k instead of longer ones! it's easier for me to cut off and update too. 
> 
> uh.... i swear marinette and chat are on their way to geting along. this was just one um hiccup :') 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [e-milieeee!](https://e-milieeee.tumblr.com/)


	6. queen of faux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is more or less dedicated to the introduction of a certain character :)

Marinette does not know where she is going. 

She regrets not having listened more to Chat Noir’s directions of the castle. All she remembers is that the east wing of the palace is where all the chambers of the palace servants and staff are, but the smaller, branching pathways that lead back to her room remain unknown to Marinette. 

But it doesn’t matter. She wants to run, but she doesn’t want to give Chat the satisfaction of knowing he had made her flee away like a coward. So instead, Marinette walks as briskly as possible, clenching her fists until her nails leave moon-shaped imprints on her palms and her anger rises and ebbs like the tide. 

In minutes, Marinette is lost, but she can’t bring herself to care. Instead, letting herself inside the nearest empty room, she takes a seat on the couch to regather her bearings and pull her thoughts together. 

Like water, they slip through her fingers every time Marinette tries to grasp them. She can’t pinpoint a single thought, but instead, they all rage in a storm of emotions inside her. Anger. Frustration. Jealousy. Sadness. They mix and mingle until each stick to the other and Marinette can no longer pull them apart. 

Is it Chat? No, not really. It’s not _Chat Noir_ himself; it’s the thought of Chat, the concept, the _what-ifs_ and the underlying uncertainties that hang around him. Sure, the prince may act like a gentleman now, but for such a horrid curse to have been cast on him—he _must’ve_ done something bad, right? And if that were the case, then didn’t it mean that he wasn’t a good person before? Marinette clutches the reasons she can and _should_ hate Chat Noir tightly in her arms, but doubt scatters them like feathers kissed by the wind. 

Even if it weren’t for the guilt, heavy and horrid inside of her, Marinette knows that she was wrong. They’d both flung hateful words at each other, but the things Chat had said at least held some ounce of truth. And maybe hers did, too, before they had been distorted beyond recognition by her own spite and hate. 

But no matter _how_ Marinette thinks about it, she can’t bring herself to swallow the thought of an apology. 

With a loud _crash,_ the door of the room slams open, effectively snapping Marinette from her thoughts. She flinches, surprised, as a figure bursts into the room. 

chloe looks around first 

“What are _you_ doing here _?”_ the girl demands. 

Marinette straightens on the couch. “I’m sorry?”

  
She flounces inside with a practiced lightness to her step. Out of everyone from the castle, she is wearing the most extravagant clothing so far: even the mask on her face is fit for the masquerade of all masquerades, with intricate designs of black and yellow. They curve in smooth, elegant lines over her nose, leaving room to showcase cherry painted lips and sharp blue eyes. Her dress follows what Marinette supposes is the latest, ridiculous fashion trend: it flares out so dramatically from the waist that Marinette isn’t certain how the girl even fits through doors. 

“What are you doing?” she repeats. “This is _my_ sitting room.” 

Her voice, like her eyes, is razor-edged. There’s a lilt to her tone and pronunciation, very much like Chat Noir’s—it’s the perfected accent of nobility. Except Chat, despite his flawless intonation, the pristine way he speaks—it’s not like… _this_. 

_This_ —this girl, her tone, the way her nose lifts so she can look down at Marinette—is all painfully familiar. 

Marinette practically snaps to her feet. 

“I’m sorry,” she replies curtly. “I didn’t know this was your room.”

“You didn’t,” the girl echoes like it’s the most absurd thing in the world. She takes a step closer, nose wrinkling delicately. Marinette feels like a dirty piece of laundry being examined. She’s well-acquainted with that look, but it doesn’t stir any less irritation inside her chest. “Wait. _You_ are the new girl? The one Chat hauled in from the woods?” 

With Rena, Marinette had felt as if she owed the girl at least some sort of courtesy. Now, courtesy is the last thing on her mind. 

“Were you expecting somebody different?” she asks drily. 

“Yes,” comes the immediate reply. “Well, perhaps it’s a good thing. Somebody like you couldn’t _possibly_ break the curse.” 

It’s only because years and years of practice—years of dealing with people like such—that Marinette manages to reign in her temper. Instead, she tilts her head and smiles as blandly as possible. “And what’s your name again?” 

The scowl deepens across her face, painted lips twisting into an angry frown. “The prince didn’t tell you?” she asks.

“No.” She maintains the smile until her cheeks hurt, but it’s well worth it. “I guess he didn’t think it was important enough to bring up?” 

The girl’s face turns red with anger. Marinette is genuinely surprised when she manages to school her expression into something more neutral, even if her cheeks are still burning pink. Instead, the girl tosses golden curls over her shoulder and gives Marinette a slow, disapproving once-over. “Perhaps _you_ weren’t important enough for Chat to bring me up to,” she replies, the disdain dripping like poison from her words. 

(Although after that shouting match with Chat Noir, her words are but a blunted edge of a knife, not even sharp enough to cut.) 

“Perhaps,” Marinette replies off-handedly. “What _is_ your name?” 

Before she can reply, somebody else calls, “Queenie? Who are you talking to?” 

The door is pushed open. Marinette, now much more acquainted with Rena’s voice, recognizes the girl immediately even before she can see the orange and white. 

“It’s _not_ Queenie,” the girl snaps petulantly. “I told you to stop calling me that.” 

Rena’s amused gaze travels to Marinette. “I see you’ve met _Queenie,”_ she says, mirth dancing in her eyes. “You’ve already finished the tour?” 

Marinette hopes Rena doesn’t see the way she flinches. She’d forgotten all about her argument with Chat Noir in the minute, but Rena’s presence is a sharp, unwelcome reminder of the lingering malice between her and the prince, brewing an even worse storm than before. She doesn’t know _how_ to break the news. She doesn’t know if she _can._

So, instead she replies simply, “Yes, we have.” 

To Marinette’s relief, Rena breezes past it. “I don’t suppose Chat Noir is the one who brought you to Queenie’s room. He’s not _that_ cruel.” 

“ _Queen Bee,”_ the girl seethes. 

Marinette peers at her—Queenie? Queen Bee? There’s something a little bit different in her hostility to Rena—it’s still barb-tongued and angry edges, but it lacks a _real_ sort of anger. It’s… all bark and no bite.

Suddenly, Marinette remembers the conversation she had had with Chat Noir that morning. It feels like ages ago; their fight separates everything before and after by a dark, unforgiving wall. He’d mentioned the dances Rena hosted along with another girl named the _most dramatic resident of the palace._

“It’s _you,”_ Marinette blurts. “You throw the balls with Rena, don’t you?” 

Queenie’s eyebrows arch delicately. “So you _do_ know me.”

“Chat mentioned your name in passing,” Marinette shrugs. “We were talking about the dances Rena throws.” 

Rena’s expression lights up. “He told you about those? There’s one coming up in a week, actually. Queenie and I are just finalizing everything.” She grins. “If you go, I’ll make sure I secure you a dance with the prince. He’s a fine dancer.” 

Marinette swallows the lump of guilt. “Dances aren’t really my thing,” she replies carefully. “But I appreciate the invitation.” 

Rena waves her hand. “Nonsense. Trust me, it’ll be fun.” 

“I shouldn’t,” Marinette insists. It’s not the dance itself, really. It’s not even the curse. It’s the thought of facing Chat Noir which brings a rise of nausea; nausea she’s certain is caused more by her own words than the prince’s. “Besides, I have more important things to focus on. I need to break the curse.” 

“Like _you’d_ be able to break the curse,” Queenie chimes in. She lifts her nose again to look down at Marinette. “You’re nothing but a peasant, aren’t you?” 

Marinette raises her chin. “I am,” she replies. “But it seems status didn’t help _you_ either when it comes to success.” 

She doesn’t expect the peel of laughter from Rena’s direction. “Oh, she got you good,” she laughs. “C’mon, Marinette. Let’s leave her to throw her little tantrum by herself. I’ll take you back to her room.”

“Yes, get _out!”_ Queenie yells shrilly as Rena grabs her by the arm and pulls her out of the door. “I won’t be as kind next time I find you in one of my rooms!” 

Rena doesn’t stop laughing until the door is slammed behind them and they’ve turned onto a different hallway. Then, wiping _tears_ from her eyes, she says, “Don’t mind her.” 

“Queenie,” Marinette tries carefully. “Or is it Queen Bee?” 

“It’s _technically_ Queen Bee. We all call her Queenie. She doesn’t mind it as much as you think. She probably just didn’t want me calling her that in front of you. Really takes away the intimidation factor.” 

Marinette isn’t sure _intimidating_ is the right word to describe her. Spoiled, perhaps. Rude, most definitely. “I’ve met more intimidating,” she replies. “And those who have done much worse.” 

“No wonder you dealt with her so perfectly.” 

Not knowing how to reply and a little wary of saying something that Rena would find genuinely insulting, Marinette only nods. As if her mood is contagious, Rena’s chatter dies off and the rest of the walk is spent in heavy silence. 

“We’re here,” Rena chimes at last. Marinette peers at the doors—she’s beginning to recognize the carved patterns on the wood of her room a little better. The palace is still unfamiliar, but it’s surprisingly nice for a part of it to start feeling a little less foreign. “Is there anything you also need? How would you like your dinner—and _what_ would you like for dinner? If you’d like to eat with Chat Noir—” 

“No,” Marinette cuts in immediately before she can think better. 

Rena’s eyebrows shoot up while the dread in Marinette’s stomach drops down, down, down. 

“Not up for that again?” she asks, a hint of questioning in her tone. 

It definitely is not a conversation Marinette is ready to have at the moment. What can she even say? _I’ve broken my promise already, because instead of giving Chat Noir a chance, I blew up_ my _chance spectacularly as well._

Marinette swallows. “I just want a little while to sort out my thoughts.” It’s the closest she can say to the truth. 

Rena lingers at the door for a couple moments more before giving her a short nod. “I’ll see you have your meals brought to you, then,” she replies, then turns to leave.

Disappointment settles within the dread, and Marinette thinks that it’s even worse an emotion to possess. 

___________

Dinner is delivered to Marinette’s room by a nameless, masked servant, who leaves before Marinette can thank her. Despite the large variety of food, Marinette eats absentmindedly. Her thoughts drift between Chat Noir and Adrien transiently, but in the end, she forcibly shoves her argument with Chat into the back of her mind. It’s a problem for the next day. 

But now—as shadows elongate and sunlight slips away sliver by sliver— _now_ is nighttime, and nighttime means that she can meet Adrien again. 

Marinette doesn’t even attempt to sleep. It’s going to cost her and she will have to pay in exhaustion, but exhaustion is a price she can well afford compared to everything else. 

Late afternoon bleeds into evening, and evening into night. Marinette spends her time after dinner outside on the balcony, where she is shielded safely from the cold by warm blankets and a cup of steaming tea the servant had left her with when she’d returned to pick up her empty plate. 

It’s strange in a way that Marinette wishes she could get accustomed to, but at the same time, knows she cannot. In any other circumstance, she might’ve enjoyed the luxuries the castle had to offer. Now, they serve as painful reminders of _what-ifs_ and _if-onlys._

Marinette stays outside even as the cold begins to seep through the thick blankets. Stars blink into existence one by one in the sky, and the crescent moon hangs with a faintly yellow glow. The sky is surprisingly clear, and Marinette thinks that the moon and those stars are the same ones her father sees, back at home. It’s the only thing they have in common now. Everything else lays buried, separated by the dark forest. 

A little while later, when her tea becomes cold and the chill reaches her bones, Marinette returns to her room. The coolness keeps her just awake enough, but her thoughts have become fuzzy and sluggish. She’s tired no matter how hard she fights sleep. 

Adrien saves her from the struggle. A soft rapping at the door snaps Marinette back into consciousness, and she scrambles for it immediately. 

She only needs to open a sliver to see the head of golden hair and catch a glimpse of green eyes, containing smiles inside of them even if his mouth is set in a neutral line. 

“Good evening,” Adrien greets as Marinette opens the door wider, and a small sprout of warmth blossoms in her chest at the way the smile travels from his eyes down to his lips. “I did save you food, by the way, in case you got hungry again. Unless you’d prefer to make your own.” 

As fun as their baking expedition had been the day before, Marinette doesn’t have time to repeat it tonight. 

“I’m okay,” she tells him, slipping outside the room. The corridors have once more become deserted, like life in the palace exists in an exhale and inhale; they disappear in a breath, then appear in another. Now, it seems as if the castle is holding its breath, and she and Adrien are breaking an invisible rule that keeps the other residents of the palace on a tight leash. “Actually, I wanted to figure a bit about the curse today. Do you think you could help?” 

“The curse?” Adrien echoes. “I mean—I don’t really know that much about it, but I can help with what I can.” 

The carpet mutes their footsteps as they head down the hall. Adrien sticks out his arm. “Cookie?” he asks. 

Marinette peers down. Wrapped in a white cloth is, indeed, a pile of treats. 

“Where’d you get this?” she asks, reaching for one. 

“Stole them,” he tells her with a straight face. 

Marinette, halfway through a bite, sputters out crumbs. “You _what?”_

Adrien’s face shifts into a slightly sheepish smile. He raises his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m kidding! The cooks left out some food today, which I found when I got there. But I wasn’t really hungry. I brought them in case you were.” 

It’s such a casually sweet gesture that Marinette finds herself fighting back her smile. “Where are we going?” she asks instead. 

Adrien rubs the back of his neck. “I promised I’d show you around yesterday, right? If you’re still up for it, that is. I thought I’d try to familiarize you with the halls—at least of this wing of the palace—so you wouldn’t get lost as often. You can ask me the questions you want about the curse too and I’ll answer to the best of my ability.” 

_A palace tour._ A little more than half a day ago, Chat Noir had offered her the same thing. Strange now to be walking the same halls with a servant boy, but with so much less tension between them. 

It’s easy, with Adrien. Although Marinette barely knows him—really, she’s known the prince longer—it’s easy to accept Adrien’s earnestness without feeling guilt. It’s easy to look him in the eye without suspicions rising to swamp her mind. It’s easy to laugh with him without the inkling that she’s betraying her father, her mother, _herself._

“Have you ever met the prince?” she asks Adrien as they walk. He moves at a brisk pace, but not so fast that Marinette struggles to keep up. 

“Chat Noir?” Adrien asks. “I’ve never met him or seen him, but I’ve definitely heard of him. What is he like?”

What _is_ he like? Despite the words that rise immediately, none of them seem to fit the prince properly. So, she says, “I’m not certain. He… he is kinder than I expected.” 

It’s not a lie. It’s just much easier admitting the truth to Adrien than it is to herself. Before he can have a chance to question her choice words, Marinette adds, “He also gave me a tour of the palace today.” 

He stops. “Does this mean you don’t need me to show you around?” 

“No, no!” Her response comes out more urgent than she intended—it’s partially to do with the way his shoulders actually dropped with disappointment. “I mean, Chat never finished the tour. We only got around to seeing the archives. Then…” _Then I blew up at him. But that’s okay, because that means you can show me around now!_ “Do you think we can go to the gardens as well? We never got there, and I was looking forward to it.”

Adrien blinks. “The gardens? Are you certain? It’s cold during the night.” 

“I’m quite used to cold,” Marinette reassures him.

Something flickers behind his green eyes, something Marinette can’t read. Then, in a heartbeat, the expression is gone and she wonders if she’d imagined it. Perhaps it had been a trick of the firelight, ever-flickering as it seems to bend reality. 

“Gardens it is,” Adrien says, and he offers her a smile and his arm. “Shall we?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> adrien will be explored more next chapter! and if y'all lucky, chat will drop by as well, lol. 
> 
> sorry it's a bit of a filler! i debated making it longer but.... chloe's introduction was necessary. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [e-milieeee!](https://e-milieeee.tumblr.com/)


	7. rose garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marinette discovers a little bit more about the curse.

“What was Riviera like?” 

They are passing through the grand hall. It’s a surprisingly short distance from her room, and Marinette tries her best to remember the twists and turns Adrien takes her on. She's getting better at memorizing the halls, but it's still not perfect.

“It’s a small town,” she tells Adrien. “Just… barely a sixth of the size of the city that’s bordering the castle.”

Adrien frowns like he’s trying to picture it in his head. “I would like to visit,” he tells her. 

The words _you can_ rise to Marinette’s lips before she realizes he _can’t._ So instead, she says, “There’s not much to see.” It's the truth. "Really, everything here is better than Riviera. The people, included." 

“I would like to try your father’s bread,” he decides. “That’s something to visit for. If he’s truly better than you, then he must be exceptional.” 

There’s a gleam in his eyes, almost childishly excited. Marinette, not wanting to disappoint, shrugs. “Perhaps, then. But don't raise your expectations too much." 

In her periphery, Adrien smiles softly. She doesn’t dare turn fully to look at him, but the corners of her lips threaten to lift as well. 

They cross the grand hall in silence, with nothing but the sound of their footfalls across the marble floor. The echo makes it sound like another pair of steps trail behind them, but when Marinette’s paranoia finally gets the best of her and she turns to look over her shoulder, they are alone. 

Adrien notices. “Don’t worry,” he tells her. His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, but the hall seems to amplify even the softest of sounds, sending his words skittering around and up and back to them. “You get used to the silence after a while. Sometimes it’s even nice to hear the echoes. Anyway, we’re here.” 

They duck behind the staircase, where a set of doors wait. Adrien pushes it open. 

The cool draft that rushes inside sends whispers sweeping behind them as well. Marinette wraps her cloak tighter around her shoulders and peers into the garden. 

The moon illuminates the area surprisingly well, bathing the garden—a vast, grand space that stretches out like open arms—in cold shards of light. Color is washed away under the white light, and instead, everything gleams a pale, pearly color, different shades of either black or white. It’s beautiful in a frightening way, and Marinette thinks she would’ve preferred the garden sitting in the gold of daylight instead of the silver of the moon and stars. 

But it’s better this way, standing here with Adrien in companionable silence, rather than forced, tense exchanges that would’ve happened if it had been Chat.

They leave the warmth of the palace to step outdoors. Adrien trails quietly behind Marinette, adjusting the sleeves of his clothing and pulling the buttons tighter. “Are you sure you’re not cold?” 

Marinette tugs on her cloak. “This is much warmer than anything I’ve worn back home,” she reassures him. “Wait, are _you?”_

“I come out here quite often, so I’m rather accustomed to the weather. The wind is what makes it worse right now, but when it snows…” Adrien trails off, peering up at the sky. “It might snow any day. We might even be able to see it together.” He pauses, looks at her, then adds hastily, “If you would like.” 

She blinks at him. “That would be great, but… do you _like_ the snow?” 

Adrien’s confusion mirrors her own. “Do I like the snow?” he echoes. “Well… I suppose I do? The first snowfall is always lovely at this time of year. Do you not?” 

Marinette thinks back. Snow comes with its share of treasured memories; building forts with her mother, her hair wet and cheeks red as an aftermath. They’d sit inside afterwards with a cup of hot chocolate, next to the crackling hearth. Winter was cold, then, but that cold never reached further than skin-deep. No matter _how_ hard the wind howled or the snow fell, they were safe inside—the three of them—warm, happy, loved. 

But those are the better memories. The sweetness of them turns bitter in the face of her mother’s passing. After that, cold had just been cold; snow proved difficulty for her father’s business. It was never enjoyed, not anymore, but simply dreaded. A strange, harsh reality she’d grown accustomed to, until the thought of _liking_ snow was foreign.

“No,” Marinette answers at last. “Not really. Winters were always extremely difficult in Riviera, especially for the less wealthy. We never liked the snow that much and since it made travel difficult as well, snow was just a nuisance.” A thought suddenly hits. “I wonder how my father is doing. It's strange not knowing what's happening to him." 

Adrien remains silent for a couple of seconds. Then, he says, “I think I know what you feel.” 

“You do?” 

He leans over and plucks a leaf from a nearby branch. The trees have all donned their autumn gowns; the moonlight allows a slightly orange hue to catch her eye. “I wonder about my family sometimes,” he murmurs. “You must worry more because you know where your father is—and _who_ he is. I don’t know who my parents are, but I still find myself thinking about them. I wonder if they’re in this palace as well, also serving the prince and if I’ve passed them and simply never recognized them. Or… or if they’re still alive at all.” There’s the faintest tremor in his voice, but when Adrien meets her eyes, he forces a small, sad smile. “I can’t compare myself to you, really. And perhaps it’s a blessing that I can’t remember. But sometimes, I do wish that I could have at least a memory of them to hold onto.” 

They meet each other’s eyes for a little while, neither speaking. Comfort is a luxury that is enjoyed by those who don’t have anything to lose. And between them—Adrien, who has already lost it all, and Marinette, who can lose it all by a single wrong step—comfort is surprisingly easier to understand through unsaid words. 

“Sometimes I’ve wondered which would be worse. Not knowing, or knowing and losing it.” They have begun to walk again, a slow, steady pace throughout the winding stone path. Marinette keeps her gaze on the ground, so Adrien doesn’t see the way she blinks and how her eyes sting. “My mother passed away when I was thirteen years old. Sometimes I think that it must be better to have never had a mother in the first place, so I don’t have to miss her so much.” Marinette blinks again, hard, and wills the tears back. “Anyway, it’s all the past now. What’s your favourite part of the garden?” 

Adrien doesn’t offer his apologies or his condolences. He doesn’t avert his gaze like many do. Instead, he meets her eyes with clear understanding and does not question her change of topic. “The rose garden is my favourite,” he tells her. “Even in the winter, the roses stay in full bloom. It’s part of the magic of the castle.” 

_Rose._ The word brings back memories of the tower Chat Noir had led her to, where the single rose that had cursed his father and now her had rested. 

But Adrien’s earnestness outshines even the sliver of discomfort Marinette feels, so she nods at him and lets him lead her through the garden. 

The ground is covered by a carpet of fallen leaves, the top layer still brimming with different shades of warmth. The bottom, however, crunches under Marinette’s feet as they make their way across the garden, until Marinette spots the roses that Adrien had been talking about. 

Despite the barely minimal light, the red of the roses stands out like crimson on snow. They line the path unmistakably, the only splash of color in an otherwise fading garden, as if they exist beyond the seasons. Adrien stops in front of a rose bush. 

“I don’t know if it’s the same for the rest of those in the palace, but it seems that I’ve been… frozen in time,” he tells Marinette. “I’ve lost track of the years, but I realized a while ago that I have never aged. I guess these roses are too, somehow.” 

Marinette peers at the roses. She’s seen bushes of them back home, adorning the lawn of the mayor, but she’s never seen a flower so pristine. “Are there other flowers?” 

“Ones that bloom in the springtime. They’re all gone now. It’s been too cold for them to survive.” 

She reaches out to cup a flower. It’s strangely delicate, silk underneath her fingertips, yet unshakable no matter how the wind tears and the rain batters and the snow weighs. “Seven years,” Marinette says. “That’s how long the prince told me he’s been under the curse.” She turns to look at Adrien. “What is _your_ curse? You said you would tell me today, right?” 

For a moment, he looks as if he’s going to push it back yet again. Then, Adrien lets out a small huff, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “I honestly don’t know much myself,” he says. “Not really. But from what I’ve figured out, I’m only conscious during nighttime. I don’t know where I am during the day or _who_ I am, really, but since the curse started, I’ve always just…well, I don’t _remember_ what the sun looks like. But I haven’t seen it since the curse.” 

Marinette blinks at him. “You’ve never seen the sun?” she asks. 

Adrien shakes his head. “I think it’s around midnight that I wake up,” he says, head tilted in thought. “Winter nights, I’m awake longer, because the sun rises later. But no matter how hard I try to remember, it’s as if—it’s as if I don’t even _exist_ during the daytime. Every night I wake up again without knowing what happened during the day, and every time before the sun rises my memory just cuts off.” He pauses, looks at her as if checking for disbelief. “That’s all I know. That, and my name.” 

Marinette doesn’t even realize she’s holding her breath until he stops speaking. “But _why?”_ she manages. “Why would the curse single you out like this?” 

Adrien glances away. “I don’t know. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help either.” 

She recognizes her mistake a little too late. “Sorry,” Marinette adds hastily. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice. It’s just… I’m supposed to solve all of this, but none of it’s making sense, the prince isn’t exactly cooperating. It’s just all a jumble that I can’t solve.” 

“You’ve only been here for less than two days,” he reassures. “You have time.” 

Marinette winces. “Twenty eight more days isn’t exactly a lot. People before me have attempted, too. Six others. They were probably more educated than me, and they still failed. Maybe it was doomed from the start.” 

“More educated, perhaps,” Adrien says. “But smarter? That’s not true.” 

Marinette’s cheeks heat up despite herself. “Flatterer,” she grumbles under her breath at him, inciting a soft laugh. It feels nice, like this. To laugh and to pretend and to let her mind wander to silly things. 

Adrien’s serious tone returns. “It’s true, Marinette. And what you did for your father—that was brave. Not many would have the courage to do something like that.” 

It doesn’t _feel_ brave. It hasn’t before, and it doesn’t now. But Marinette doesn’t voice those thoughts; instead, she takes a seat on the stone bench. Adrien sits down beside her. 

“Do you know if there’s a reason why the residents of the palace all disappear when night comes?” she asks. “Is it part of the curse? Is that why I’m the only one who can come out?” She pauses. “Wait. Chat Noir told me he couldn’t meet you during the night. Is _that_ why? Because for some reason, they’re cursed to… I don’t know, disappear?” 

Adrien’s eyebrows furrow. “Did Chat Noir mention _why_ he can’t meet me during the night?” 

“The answer he gave me was pretty vague, so I don’t know why. But I’m willing to bet that it has to do with why the palace is so empty during nighttime. I’ll have to ask Rena tomorrow morning.” She peers at Adrien, a thought suddenly striking her. “Does this mean you’ve never met anybody else for _seven_ years?” 

He looks away. Then, in a small voice, Adrien manages, “No.” 

“No?” Marinette echoes. “You mean—” 

“I mean, I have met somebody. It was about two years ago. For a month.” 

Marinette’s head spins, thinking back to the people she’s met. So far, out of the alleged six, she’s only met Rena and Queen Bee. The rest…

“Who was it?” she asks Adrien. “I mean, can you describe her?” 

“Her name was Chloe Bourgeois,” comes the reply. “I found her like you, actually. Wandering around the halls in the middle of the night. With no sense of direction.” 

“Chloe Bourgeois,” Marinette repeats. “You—you _remember_ her name.” 

“Yes…?” 

Marinette’s hands are shaking. She doesn’t understand what this means—really, it’s just untangling one web only to realize she’s trapped in another—but it’s _something._ “Can you describe Chloe?” 

“Golden-blonde hair. Blue eyes. She had quite a temper. I don’t know what’s happened to her now that she also fell under the curse. But for a month, it was nice to have a companion again.” He looks at her, earnest and genuine and lonely at the same time. “She had quite a temper and a habit of throwing tantrums when she didn’t get what she wanted and was quite overly fond of all the luxuries the palace offers. Why? Do you know her? Have you met her?" 

_Chloe Bourgeois. Queen Bee._

“I-I think,” Marinette stammers. “At least, I met her with her mask on just today. She fits in your description, so…” 

“Ah.” Adrien draws a knee up. “Is she doing well?” 

Marinette thinks back, genuinely at a loss for words. Queen Bee (Or was it Queenie? Or Chloe Bourgeois?) hadn’t exactly left the most pleasant taste in her mouth, but Adrien seems concerned. After a long, pregnant pause, Marinette settles with replying, “She hosts monthly balls now, apparently.” 

“Oh,” he replies softly. “That’s good.” 

The silence that follows that is longer, more strained, laden with the sort of heaviness that comes from missing words and uncertainty. The sort that is hardest to break; the sort Marinette does not know _how_ to break. 

It is Adrien, in the end, who rises to his feet first. “It’s getting cold,” he tells her. “Let’s go inside.” 

_________

Marinette is careful around the topic of the curse for the rest of the time she spends with Adrien. The brief spell seems to wear off from him, because when the conversation transitions from spells and magic to the sort of items her father sells in the bakery, Adrien is once again holding up a steady conversation. _Tomorrow_ , she tells herself. She’ll solve it tomorrow. She’ll ask him more tomorrow. 

She arrives back at her room tired, although pleasantly so. Adrien bids her goodnight, but before Marinette can ask him if he will come back the next night, he has already disappeared down the hall. 

_________

Morning brings a brand new problem: Chat Noir. 

Marinette wakes up on her own. It’s not nearly so late as the day before, but the sun is slanting through the silk curtains and the room is resplendent in light, gleaming off any smooth surface available. Marinette, accustomed to waking up and dressing herself in mere minutes, is awake and rubbing away the sleep with the pitcher of water that sits at the vanity. She tugs the comb through her hair a couple of times, centers the collar of her cloak, and takes a deep breath. Her stomach grumbles, but Marinette’s still not familiar enough with the palace to make it down to the kitchen without a guide. When will Rena come? Will she even come at all? Perhaps the girl has heard all about her argument with Chat, and is more than happy to let her starve to death in the room. 

Her solution comes from a knock at her door. Marinette pulls away from the mirror so fast that she nearly knocks over the pitcher.

“I’m almost ready!” she calls. “Just give me a second.” 

(Now that her problem with transportation has been solved, she must tackle the problem of facing Rena, which is, admittedly, even more worrisome.) 

Marinette heaves the weighted doors open. “Sorry,” she breathes, “Uh, I—” 

Chat Noir’s green eyes blink owlishly at her. Then he takes a large step back—so much so that it would’ve been comedic if it had been anyone but _him._ “Good morning,” he greets, albeit a bit stiffly. “My apologies for intruding. I am probably not who you expected to see.” 

Like an idiot, Marinette gapes back at him. “You’re not Rena,” is her first response. 

Chat looks a little panicked. “I’m not,” he agrees. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to barge on you, and I hope I didn’t wake you.” 

As the surprise ebbs and guilt hits, Marinette finds herself no longer able to look Chat Noir in the eye. She drops her gaze in favour of looking at his outfit, which is much simpler today: a black cloak with a golden clasp at his throat, and a simple shirt and pants. She keeps her eyes fixed on the golden clasp, the only splash of color in an attire that seems otherwise woven from shadows. 

“It’s alright,” she finally says stiffly. 

It comes out wrong. The tenseness in her voice has less to do with him than it does with her, but the silence on Chat’s end spans for a little too long. Marinette, finally summoning the courage, lifts her head to meet his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about it,” she starts, at the same time Chat Noir blurts, “I am sorry.” 

They look at each other, both wide eyed and short of breath. Marinette dips her head and gestures at Chat. “You go first.” 

He seems to consider her offer for a couple of seconds before taking a deep breath. “I am sorry,” Chat Noir repeats, this time louder. “What I said to you yesterday was insensitive. I meant to find you last evening, but I was not certain you would want to see me anyway, so…” He shifts his weight. “I know we might have set off on the wrong foot, Marinette, but I did not mean to withhold information from you. I want to break this curse as much as you do, and I promise I’ll do all I can to help you.”

The words are careful, yet not rehearsed. Genuine in a way that seems to echo something familiar, something Marinette can’t place her finger on. 

But hasn’t he always been? Ever since the first day, since she’d woken up in a foreign city, Chat Noir had been exactly that—genuine. Kind. Considerate. The only person who _hadn’t_ been was her. 

Really, thinking back to Adrien, neither he nor Chat have done anything drastically different. But Adrien Agreste simply _seemed_ different because of—what? The lack of a mask? His status?

And it’s wrong, because if there’s anything Marinette has learned, status and appearance are the worst judges of anybody’s person. The only real separation between Adrien and Chat are the questions regarding the curse and the reasons _why_ Chat’s been cursed, which he knows no better than her. And so, Marinette decides, it’s time to try— _truly_ try—to stop holding that against him. 

It takes Marinette a couple more moments to realize that she’s left Chat hanging, and he’s still peering at her expectantly, waiting for a response with patience she definitely cannot summon. Gathering all her scraps of courage, she meets his eyes and takes a deep breath. “You don’t need to apologize,” Marinette mumbles. “I… I was at fault yesterday.” 

Chat immediately protests. “I should have listened better,” he disagrees, “and I never explained—” 

“I shouldn’t have said things to you that weren’t true.” The admission is much easier to get out when she’s speaking fast, so Marinette barrels on. “Um, I've been thinking about it for a while and although I did have a good reason to be frustrated, what I said to you was cruel. And untrue. I was angry and confused—and I still _am_ confused—but that doesn’t excuse the way I treated you. I’m sorry.” 

The silence that follows her confession is just as bated as before, like the castle itself is holding its breath, waiting for Chat Noir’s response. Marinette does too, like letting go of one small breath will send some precious, fragile thing tumbling down and shattering into smithereens. 

Then, Chat dips his head. It's a small gesture, but it holds a magnitudes of respect Marinette wonders if she deserves. “For what it’s worth, I have forgiven you already.” 

Marinette nods solemnly. “That’s good to hear. I have too." 

The corner of his lips lift into a smile. “Shall we start on a fresh page, then?” 

She looks at the hand extended to her, clothed in black and ending in the curve of claws. Marinette still does not know much of cursed princes, of ancient magic and of enchanted gardens, but she does know what genuineness is, and how to recognize it. It’s written all over Chat Noir’s face, in his eyes and on his lips, and no mask nor magic can conceal that. 

So Marinette takes his hand. His palm is warm, fingers squeezing hers gently before Chat lets go. His smile turns into a grin, the tips of his incisors showing. “Speaking of fresh pages,” he says, “what do you think of learning how to write?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little scared how perceptive some of you guys are. But very much impressed :D 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [e-milieeee!](https://e-milieeee.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Tizzy made an amazing fanart of this fic which I'm not done screaming over yet [here!](https://tizzymcwizzy.tumblr.com/post/619707100333064192/marichat-may-day-30-purrince-a-masked-prince)


	8. library of old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some well-timed writing and reading lessons may be the key to breaking down those walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is over 3.6k of fluff, so be forewarned :)

“Write?” Marinette echoes, their previously exchanged apologies forgotten. “What do you mean you’ll teach me how to write?” 

Chat blinks. “Write… as in penmanship? Calligraphy? Is there another word for it?” 

Marinette folds her arms. She knows he doesn’t mean for his tone to be condescending—it isn’t, but the words feel like so. “I know what writing is. But what do you mean you’ll teach me how to write? Why? What for?” 

Her questions only seem to confuse Chat Noir more, the scrunch of his nose visible even with the mask. “You wanted to write, did you not?” he asks. “And to read, as well, although you _did_ mention you have some base knowledge already. I thought… you might want to.” 

Marinette’s head is still reeling. “But _why?”_

“There is no _why.”_

She eyes him skeptically. It doesn’t sound quite right. “So you want to teach me to read and write for no reason.” _You want to do_ that _for_ me _out of the goodness of your heart?_

“Well, yes?” Chat tilts his head. “If that does not sit well with you, then we can say I am teaching you so this curse will be easier for you to solve. After all, the bulk of information on magic is all in the archives, which would be more accessible for you once you learned how to read.” 

Marinette latches onto that one word. “Magic?” she echoes, her conversation with Adrien rising from the back of her thoughts. He’d mentioned magic, briefly, when they’d discussed the roses in the garden.“What sort of magic?” 

“All sorts of magic,” Chat answers with an uncertain lilt. “There’s a lot to get into, but I _can_ explain some of it to you if you would like. _And_ teach you to read and write so that you can look into it more on your own.”

The word _no_ rises to her lips before she forces herself to think twice. It’s become a habit of doubt around Chat Noir; even as she’s now constantly reminding herself to forgive him, there’s a niggling whisper that follows, one that commands distrust and orders skepticism. 

“Yes,” Marinette says before she can lose her courage. “I’d… I’d like to learn how to read and write, then, if it’s not too much to ask for.” 

Chat’s eyes positively light up. Dressed down like this, his expression bright with a childlike sort of joy, he seems less like a prince and simply a boy—somebody Marinette can understand. He doesn’t feel _as_ far from her compared to before, and she supposes that is improvement.

“We can go to the archives now,” he suggests, “and then—” Chat pauses, an embarrassed look passing over his face. “You have not yet eaten,” he realizes, mostly to himself. “Kitchen first, then?” 

__________

Marinette has finally memorized the path from her room to the grand hall, and by extension, the library. 

She grabs a quick bite from the kitchen. Still nibbling on the sweet bun the cook had handed her, Marinette trails after Chat as they cross the hall and enter into the main corridors, just a couple of paces from the doors of the library. Strange to think that this was where they’d been only a day ago, where they’d faced each other to fling both the most painful truths and the most truthful lies. Now, there is a mutual understanding—tentative, but stronger than before. Marinette is afraid that one misstep will break that newfound trust. 

By the time Chat Noir is pushing open the enormous doors of the archives, Marinette has more or less finished her breakfast. She stuffs the remainder of the bun into her mouth. 

The _creak_ that resounds from the wood groaning is nearly earsplitting. Marinette winces—had it been so loud yesterday?—before shuffling inside after Chat Noir. He steps around the giant inscription at the entrance, leaving Marinette little time to peek at the red lines, before making a beeline directly towards the bookshelves. 

Chat Noir’s pace is unusually brisk. Given that Marinette’s long noticed his penchant for slowing down whenever she’s lagging behind, this is a speed that she’s not quite accustomed to. It makes her wonder if she has once again done something wrong, and the thought digs into her gut with an emotion suspiciously similar to worry. Perhaps that frayed rope of trust they share is simply too fragile. 

Her doubts dissipate when Chat’s hurried steps lead them into an aisle and he starts scouring through the books with his nose scrunched all over again. Marinette watches, slightly amused, as he traces a finger down the line of books, apparently looking for one that might be a good fit. Then he moves onto the next aisle, strangely absorbed in his fruitless little search. 

It continues for at least five minutes until Marinette calls, “Is there anything specific you’re looking for?” 

Chat, who has climbed onto one of the ladders to look in the higher shelves, pauses his hunting. “There _are_ books that may be helpful here,” he begins. “Some easier ones that I remember going through when I was younger, and—” 

“Just pick anything,” Marinette interrupts. “A history book, a fairytale, whatever. I can handle it.” 

“Are you certain?” 

“I’m certain,” Marinette reassures him. 

He gives the shelves a final scan before plucking a book out and climbing back down the ladder, robes dancing like shadows around him. Marinette wonders what the fabric is made of to give off such a flowing texture, but she can’t really grab a fistful of his robes without explanation no matter how much she wants to feel them.

Chat Noir hands her the book when he reaches the ground. “Can you read the title?” 

Leather and dust hit her nose as she peers down at the alien scrawl of letters swimming underneath her fingertips. There are five words, that much she can make out. Everything else brings a familiar surge of both embarrassment and frustration, but she shoves it down. Learning to read and write is much bigger than her pride, and she can swallow her ego for this. 

“A,” Marinette sounds out slowly. She looks to Chat Noir for confirmation. 

“Good. Keep going.” 

“B—” Marinette breaks off. “I recognize those letters. An _R, I, E…_ is that an _F_?” 

“Yes. Can you sound it out?” 

Marinette does so in her head. It sounds wrong, so she shakes her head at Chat. 

“ _Brief,”_ Chat informs her. 

She sneaks another glance at him from her periphery, wondering if perhaps he is judging her. His expression betrays nothing but focus, so Marinette directs her attention to the next word. She recognizes the first two letters. 

“Hi…” 

Chat hums in agreement. 

“His… _T?_ Hist… ory?” 

“History,” he affirms with a little grin. “Did you guess that one, though?” 

Marinette shifts her weight. “Why, was it that obvious?” 

“Only slightly. It _is_ good you can guess the words because you have a pretty wide vocabulary, but you can only get so far by guessing.” 

The next word doesn’t take Marinette long for the next word. “Of? Of… that’s an _M, A_ —” 

“No guessing,” Chat warns. 

“Marinette,” she guesses, just to spite him. Chat Noir lets out a rather un-princely snort. 

“A brief history of Marinette? Nice try, but you’re a little off.” 

Marinette finds herself smiling too, but she quickly hides it in favor of sounding out the tail end of the last word. “ _M, A…_ uh, that’s a _G. I, C—_ magic! A brief history of magic!” She looks at Chat Noir. “Please tell me I’m right.” 

He nods sagely. “You are. You seemed interested in magic this morning, so I thought we could start with this book. Although it might be best to have you working on your handwriting for a little while first.” He pauses. “If you are alright with that, of course.” 

Marinette nods immediately. Chat, with his little grin still lingering on his lips, leads her towards a corner of the library they didn’t have time to explore yesterday. 

It’s a small nook nestled cozily between shelves and walls that sports a couple of couches and one table. Like the rest of the library, it simply smells _old—_ the scent of wood and lingering dust and time all mixed into one. Chat Noir pulls out a chair, gestures for her to sit, and makes his way across the table. On it lies sheets of paper, a pen and a small bottle of ink. 

Marinette slides into her seat. “Did the paper just appear?” she asks him. 

Chat, who’s flipping through the book, raises his head. “What do you mean?” 

“The paper.” Marinette gestures at the table. “The pen. Is it always here, or did it appear by magic?” 

A strange look passes over Chat’s face. “Some of the tables are supplied with these things.” 

Marinette eyes the open ink. “Wouldn’t the ink dry up?”

A look crosses Chat’s face before he reaches over to crew the cap back onto the bottle and places the book in front of her. “Here,” he says hurriedly. “I want you to write down the first sentence of this as best you can.” He points with a clawed finger. “Up to here. Just copy the letters. I need a bit of a grasp on how much you know right now.” 

It’s not extremely long of a sentence but neither is it short, and the words swim tauntingly around the page like a colony of ants. The sheer _amount_ of them brings a wave of irrational fear. Marinette’s hands are shaking long before she picks up the quill, but, not wanting to seem weak in front of Chat, she lowers it to the paper. 

The first letter is an _T._ The strokes are easy enough in practice, but with shaky hands and her confidence draining by the second, Marinette’s handwriting looks painfully undignified on paper. 

She gets through three words when Chat Noir suggests, “Take a deep breath.” 

Marinette looks up in frustration. “I can’t write if you’re going to keep watching me do it,” she snaps, a little more aggressively than she’d planned. “Sorry. It’s just… you’re fine. It’s fine.” 

“I need to find a book for myself anyway.” Chat stands up. “I will be back soon. Just continue copying.” 

Marinette doesn’t let herself dwell on the fact that he’d most likely left to give her space. It’s a sweet gesture—one she shouldn’t exactly be shocked by, yet still is—and she watches in her periphery as Chat leaves their little corner and disappears behind the rise of the shelves. She turns back to copying the sentence. 

It’s hard work. Marinette’s hands ache from how hard she’s gripping the quill. (She’s certain she’s holding it wrong, but Chat still hasn’t returned and she doesn’t think she can work up the courage to ask him to teach her something so simple as to holding a pen.) Then there’s also the fact that copying the sentence requires her utmost concentration, but her mind, treacherous thing, keeps on flitting back to the prince. It’s a little easier with Chat now, in a strange way. Part of her feels as if their argument yesterday still remains heavy between them and there’s no possible way he’s forgiven her completely, but he’s also wonderfully adept at coaxing laughter and knows all the right things to say. Every second guess she has is met with a reassurance from Chat, intentional or not. 

It’s not so bad, giving him a chance. Really, Marinette thinks that she’s lucky he's giving _her_ a chance. 

She finishes the sentence in a shorter time than she’d expected. Her handwriting, compared to the even loops and curves on the page of the book, is too large, inconsistent, and lacks the flowing quality that Chat Noir’s had demonstrated. The more she looks, the more it seems to be nothing more than a pale imitation of beauty, and Marinette glares at the sheet of paper as if doing so will turn the ugly duckling into a swan. 

Her handwriting remains ugly. Chat does, however, return from his little expedition. 

“Finished?” he asks her. 

Marinette looks up. “Yes.” She pauses, taking him in. Unless he’d hidden it under those seemingly endless black robes, the book he had set out to find is nowhere in sight. “Where’s your book?” 

“My book?” Chat looks down, as if expecting to appear at his feet. Then his expression turns sheepish. “I, ah, did not find one I wanted. May I see what you have written?” 

A little reluctantly, Marinette slides her sheet of paper over to Chat Noir, who sits back down across from her. He scans it with a thoughtful expression on his face, and every second that passes where he does not speak makes the silence press down a little heavier. 

When the apprehension becomes nearly unbearable, Chat speaks up at last. “You have a steady hand,” is what he says. 

Marinette does a double-take. “What do you mean?” 

“Your hand.” Chat turns around the piece of paper to show her. “The first three words you wrote when I was here and your handwriting was shaky, but the rest are neater and much more uniform—which was after I left, so I assume it was nerves. You already have a steady hand, so teaching you the correct strokes won’t be very hard. Was there something you used to do that would have helped with this?” 

“I…” She thinks back, but there’s nothing that really strikes her. “I used to hunt a bit. I’m decent with a bow and arrow. And my mother taught me how to sew, which requires a steady hand, I guess.” Marinette takes another peek at her writing. Chat is right—the first three words are the worst, and the rest are passably better, but still not anywhere near pretty. “Do you think that helped?” 

He nods. “Writing—and reading—just takes practice. Once you get used to it, it will come easier. You already have a good foundation, so it will not take long for you to master.” 

Marinette cannot imagine her own writing looking like the pretty loops and scrawls that make up Chat’s penmanship, no matter how much she practices. It’s almost too much to hope for. 

Chat Noir sets the piece of paper aside. “I want you to continue copying from this book, until the end of the page,” he instructs. “Then summarize what it says for me.” 

Marinette eyes him. “What are _you_ going to do?” 

Even if she can’t see under the mask, Marinette has a feeling he’s raising his eyebrows. “I’m going to find my own book to read.” 

“Are you not going to teach me?” It sounds a little petulant the moment the words leave her mouth, and to her chagrin, Chat grins again.

  
“Would you like me to?” he asks. 

Marinette glares at him and snatches the empty sheet of paper from in front of him. “No,” she snaps. “Go find your book.” 

“I was going to teach you after you finished. But from what I see, the biggest thing you need is practice, Marinette.” 

“Fine,” she replies, if only to save the last scraps of her pride. She picks up the pen. 

Chat’s footsteps halt. Then he doubles back from the shelves. “You are holding the pen slightly off. Here.” 

Marinette allows him to fix her grip, moving her thumb and index finger with a careful claw. “Keep it like this,” Chat instructs. “It might feel strange for the first while, but it will be easier to keep your writing steady.” 

He strides off after that one comment. Marinette stares after him, the words _thank you_ stuck at the back of her throat (which is strangely dry), and her hands tingling with the feeling of ghost fingertips. 

__________

This time, Chat Noir actually returns with the book. He is also carrying a glass of water, which he sets in front of Marinette with a soft _ting._

Marinette is more than halfway through the first page. The content of the book is lost to her—all of her energy has been focused on solely copying the words. 

Chat peers over her shoulder. “You are faster than I expected.” 

Marinette loses control of her next stroke in surprise. The _E_ ends with an ugly line, and she whirls around to glare at Chat. “You scared me! I thought you went away again.” 

He takes a step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Marinette mumbles. “I’m almost done, anyway.” 

Taking a seat across from her, Chat flips open his own book. Marinette watches him for a couple seconds from the corner of her eye before focusing once more. 

It’s another five, agonizing long minutes of copying when she finally finishes. Her hands are sore from how tight she’d been gripping the pen and all the unfamiliar motions that come with writing. Despite all that, looking at the newest sheet of paper, there doesn’t seem to be much significant improvement compared to the last. Marinette swallows the frustration and raises it for Chat to see. 

“Done,” she grouches. 

“It looks good. Why do you sound so angry?” 

“I’m not _angry,”_ Marinette simmers. 

Chat gives her a look of obvious disbelief, but doesn’t push much further. Instead, he takes the paper from her hands to read through it. 

Marinette waits, a little impatiently, as he reads over her writing. The book lays open in front of her, a reminder that she has to actually read the page. The whole time writing had been spent copying singular letters, none of them connecting into words, and Marinette hasn’t grasped _anything_ that’s been written. Still, she’s too anxious to start now, so she simply waits as Chat scans her writing. 

After half a minute, he lifts his head. “I will run you through the strokes for all the letters, but you _are_ much better than I imagined. Have you read the page?” 

“No, I haven’t had time.” 

He nods at the book. “Do that, and we can continue.” 

The swarm of letters doesn’t look any less intimidating now that she’s copied them all down. “It took me so long to read just the title,” Marinette protests. “This is at least twenty times the length of the title. If I read this all on my own, we won’t be out of the library before dinnertime.” 

Chat Noir lets out a little laugh, silvery and amused. “Do you have anywhere better to go off to?” 

That, Marinette can’t argue with. She returns to the book, then looks up again when Chat rises to his feet and begins dragging his chair around the table. A little confused and reading now forgotten, Marinette stares at him as he pushes the chair next to hers and sits back down. Then, with an almost infuriating air of casualness, he plucks the book from the table and drops it into her hands. “Read out loud,” he instructs. “I will help with the words you can’t figure out.” 

She can think of a thousand things to shoot back in response, but someway or another, none of them make their way past Marinette’s lips. Instead, she returns her full attention to the book and starts to sound out the first word. 

_T, O._ “To?” 

Chat nods.

 _S. A._ “Say.” 

“No guessing.” 

“ _S, A, Y—_ that _is ‘_ say’, is it not? My guessing is pretty accurate so far.” 

Chat lets out a mock-indignant huff of air, and Marinette continues her reading if only to combat the smile that is fighting to make its way onto her face. By some miracle, she labors her way through the first sentence, ignoring the frustration each time she reaches a word she can’t quite sound out. Chat offers quiet help each time he sees her struggling too long, but still always leaves her enough space to figure it out on her own. 

“ _To say magic can be truly explained is to say man can ever discover how high the sky extends_ ,” Chat quotes when she finishes. He says it so easily, pretty and effortless like his writing; it’s silk, having taken the form of speech. A small pool of jealousy stirs in her stomach. After the two or three minutes she’d spent grappling with the sentence, it feels humiliating that Chat Noir is able to read it out in less than seconds, his intonation flawless like usual. 

Marinette doesn’t even know she’s scowling until the prince asks, “Did I do something wrong?” 

She rips her eyes from the page. “Huh?” 

“You are frowning.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Would you like a mirror?” 

Marinette forces her face into a bland smile. “Better?” 

“Unfortunately, you look even more upset with me. Did I do something wrong?” 

There is simply no way to answer the question without exposing her own petty insecurities. Trying to find a suitable reply is even more work than reading the sentence. Marinette ends up blurting, “I’m just hungry.” 

Chat stares at her, eyes wide with surprise like that's the last thing he expected her to say—which makes sense, because Marinette hadn't planned on it either. They look at each other with awkward, charged silence. Marinette is certain he’s about to call her out on the lie. It’s an awful excuse. 

Then, without warning, he smiles. It’s a warm look, one vaguely familiar in a way Marinette can’t place, but melts away the rest of the tension. The self-consciousness ebbs away into a friendlier sort of embarrassment. 

“I will bring you something to eat from the kitchens,” Chat Noir offers. “Try to continue reading, and you can underline the words that you are not certain about.” 

He barely wastes a second after he speaks, sweeping off in a blur of black cloth yet again. Marinette, like an idiot, watches him leave. Even as Chat Noir disappears from the double doors, out of sight, his words still remain in a quiet whisper at the back of Marinette’s mind. It’s not such a terrible thing as she would’ve expected; instead, Marinette allows herself the small smile she’d been holding back the whole time Chat Noir had been there. Then, steeling her back, she returns to the task at hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat's a baby. And so is Marinette; a grumpy one. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [e-milieeee!](https://e-milieeee.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I actually commissioned an artist to draw a scene (from around chapter 16/17 of the story) for me, and it turned out amazing! [Check it out here :)](https://shaniartist.tumblr.com/post/620444766929321984/e-milieeee-the-sound-of-silence-contrary-to)


	9. magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marinette learns a bit about magic. And Chloe. 
> 
> or
> 
> a lore dump for y'all!

The rest of the afternoon is spent reading through the book. 

The process is as slow as it is painful. Marinette reads the sentence, Chat repeats it back to her, and they continue on at a snail’s pace. By the time they’ve gone through three pages, Marinette likes to think that she’s picked up speed. The words come slightly easier for her, at least, even if the frustration barely dwindles. 

Chat leaves her to copy more writing, but this time, it’s his own: on a slip of paper, with his spiralling calligraphy, he leaves Marinette to read and reprint. Her handiwork is nowhere  _ near  _ as lovely as Chat’s, but if she covers his writing to look only at her own, it does seem marginally better than before. The sentences he leaves her to copy are random, disjointed:  _ Your room is the eighth door down the second left turn in the east wing. The first snow will be anytime now.  _ They are simple enough for Marinette to slowly read to herself. 

When the sky outside the stain-glass windows starts darkening, Chat rises to his feet. “It’s around dinnertime,” he tells Marinette. “Would you like to join me today?”    


Marinette is reminded of their last dinner, which had wound up in tense exchanges and even the best of the food had tasted like bitter, bitter medicine. But there had also been moments of reprieve in between, where a mutual, cautious understanding had bloomed. Perhaps today will be better, and they can learn to grasp onto light instead of shadow. 

“Alright,” Marinette agrees, then nudges the heavy book still in front of her. “Could you explain a bit more to me about magic? I’m afraid I haven’t really gotten to anything substantial, and I don’t have much of a grasp on how it works.” 

“You have the book, do you not? You can just read it if you want to learn more about magic.” 

Marinette blinks at him, scandalized. “You expect me to learn everything through reading  _ this?”  _ she demands. “Do you know  _ how much  _ information is in there—” 

“Just kidding,” Chat interrupts glibly. “You needn’t look at me like that, m’lady.” 

She scowls. “You didn’t peg me for the type to make these sort of jokes.” 

“Really?” Chat Noir tilts his head, although the grin lifting the corner of his lips tells her that he’s taking it in stride. “I am shocked Rena has not yet gushed about my outstanding sense of humour.” 

Marinette gives him a pointed look. “I’m reconsidering dinner with you.” 

He sweeps a mock bow at her. Marinette laughs, to her own surprise—this was the sort of action she would have usually been offended by. But there is no malice in his movements, only a good-natured sentiment, and Marinette relaxes. She tucks the book under her arm. “Dinner it is, then.”

Chat nods, adjusting his cloak around him. “I suppose the cooks will have something prepared. Would you rather me have them make something you would prefer to eat?” 

“Anything will do. I’m not really a picky eater.” 

She doesn’t miss the look he sends her, but this one is much too close to pity for her to be comfortable with, so Marinette ignores it in favor of heading towards the door. Chat’s footsteps trail behind her, and soon, they’re walking side by side. The silence is still the awkward sort, where it should be filled with  _ something  _ but neither can think of  _ what.  _ But at least it isn’t charged with misgivings and reproach, even if she still has to fight the occasional surge of distrust. In the past two days, the simple habit of assuming the worst when it comes to Chat Noir has proven a difficult pattern to break. 

Disaster strikes the moment they exit the library. Marinette barely manages three steps into the hall when a voice calls, “Chat Noir!” 

She’s pretty sure she hears him mutter, “Oh, no,” under his breath. Then a girl flounces into their line of vision with enough bright yellow in her outfit for the image to be permanently burned into Marinette’s eyes just from one glance. 

_ Oh, no indeed.  _

Queenie—Queen Bee? Chloe Bourgeois? She doesn’t know anymore—practically shoves past Marinette and attaches herself to Chat. “I’ve been looking for you all day!” she exclaims. “Rena wants me to finalize plans with you. A week from now is what we’re thinking.” 

Chat carefully removes Queen Bee’s fingers from his arm. “A week from now works for me,” he replies smoothly. “If you have plans you want me to look over and confirm, I shall meet up with you and Rena after I eat dinner. I promised to accompany Marinette today.” 

Marinette is fixed with an antagonistic glare from the girl, who finally seems to grudgingly acknowledge her existence. With an inward groan, she’s reminded that she still has to confront Queen Bee about Adrien—a talk she isn’t looking forward to. Even with her memories gone, Marinette hopes there’s  _ some  _ information she can weasel out of the currently scowling girl. “She can just eat by herself, can’t she?” 

“You could also just wait another hour,” Chat points out firmly, although still patiently. Marinette does not understand how he has managed to keep his patience still. 

“Then I’ll join you for dinner,” Queen Bee decides, equally as stubborn. “What did the chef prepare for today? Do you suppose I can ask him right now to whip up something fancy?” 

Chat does not budge. “That is up to Marinette. We were going to discuss a bit about the curse over dinner, so I am uncertain if today is an appropriate day for you to dine with us.”

He shoots her a look over Queen Bee’s head and mouths:  _ no.  _

Marinette nearly giggles. She stops herself before she can give him a way, puts on her straightest face, and looks the other girl in the eye. “Not today, sorry,” she says, then puts on the driest smile she can manage. “Perhaps another day, Queenie?” 

If looks could kill, Marinette would be long buried six feet under. The look Queen Bee shoots her is so positively murderous that she almost feels a little bad for baiting her. Especially because the girl is still tangled up with Adrien’s mystery, something Marinette will need her cooperation if she wants to get to the bottom of. 

“You—” Queen Bee starts, a vein ticking in her forehead. Then, she seems to remember Chat Noir is still there, watching their interaction with a small smile hanging on his lips. His expression quickly morphs to neutral when Queen Bee whirls around. 

She gives Marinette one last heated glare. “I don’t know why you’re letting the likes of  _ her  _ order you around. Look at her—she has everything she could possibly want in the palace, yet she  _ still  _ dresses like a lowly peasant.” 

Marinette lifts her chin, about to shoot an equally scathing reply, but Chat Noir beats her to it. The patience has worn thin in his voice, and his tone is crisp and frosty. “Marinette is my guest here just as you are,” he tells her sharply. “I will not tolerate comments like this, even from you. We can discuss your plans for the ball  _ after dinner  _ and that is final.” 

The severity in the voice sends Queen Bee a step back, her eyes wide. She stares at Chat Noir with visible hurt in her expression. (While Marinette can’t say she doesn’t deserve it, a small piece of pity still stirs in her stomach.)

Then it morphs into a mask of indifference and she sticks her nose in the air. “Forget it,” she tells the prince angrily. “We don’t need your help with the plans anyway.” 

She turns on her heel to storm off again, and Marinette remembers her own predicament. “Wait!” 

Two pairs of surprised eyes fix on her. “What do you want  _ now _ ?” the girl demands. 

Marinette presses her lips together. Now she’s beginning to regret turning down that dinner invitation, even though it had been gratifying in the heat of the moment. Before she can think of a more craftful way to phrase the sentence, Marinette blurts, “Can I talk to you about something afterwards?”    


She receives an incredulous look. Queen Bee spins back around in a flurry of yellow. “Like hell I want to have anything to do with you,” she spats. “I— _ ugh.  _ I hate  _ both  _ of you.” 

She stomps off down the staircase without turning around again.

Chat lets out a long exhale through his nose. “Sorry you had to see that,” he mutters. “I… that girl is insufferable at times. She usually isn’t  _ as  _ bad, though. I’m uncertain what got into her today.” 

Marinette has an inkling what the answer to that is, but she decides that it’s pointless to bring up to Chat. Instead, she nods towards the direction of the kitchens. “Still up for dinner?” 

  
“After all that hassle Queenie put us through, I can’t just  _ not,”  _ he jokes back, but it’s half hearted. “What did you need to talk to her about? And… does that mean you have already met her?” 

“Yesterday, yes. After, um, after I left the library. I accidentally stumbled into one of her rooms, but Rena extracted me from that situation before I could get completely chewed out.” 

“Ah.” He lets out a nervous little laugh. “Good thing you survived that encounter.” 

“You’re fond of her,” she observes. 

Chat blinks. “Fond of her?” he asks. “Of who? Queenie?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I am,” Chat admits. “She may be insufferable, bossy and demanding, but… I admit she has grown on me.” 

Marinette nods, slightly absentminded as her thoughts flit somewhere else. There’s something about Adrien’s situation—and Queen Bee’s involvement in it—that is strange, and she wants to dig deeper into it before confronting Chat as well. Besides, Marinette reasons to herself, given his confusion about Adrien’s mere existence, he’s not going to be of much help. 

They lapse into silence as they make their way through the halls once more. Marinette is still clutching the book under her arm when they step inside the room with the dining table. 

She’s once again hit with the memories of that dinner together, and it’s enough to stop Marinette at the door as she peers into the room. It’s disjointing when everything looks the same but she doesn’t  _ feel  _ the same. 

Chat tilts his head at her. “Marinette? Are you coming inside?” 

She blinks at him and wonders what happened. In the span of the day, Marinette has not only gotten used to Chat Noir—his politeness, his acute awareness of her slightest movements and how oddly sweet he is—but there’s no stir of doubt at the sincerity in his green eyes. It’s simply easier to accept at face value. 

It’s a thought that scares her and reassures her at the same time, so Marinette does not allow herself to dwell longer on it. Instead, she steps inside, where a wide array of food is already set on the table. 

The aroma is lovely, and Marinette’s stomach rumbles. Chat Noir pulls her chair out for her before slipping into the seat across from her. 

“Hungry?” he asks. 

“Yes,” admits Marinette. 

Soon after, she’s digging into the soup. There’s the faint taste of pumpkin, spiced to perfection, and… 

“Scallops!” she exclaims as she bites into it. “I haven’t had these for so long. They’re usually too expensive to afford. And—oh,  _ prawns!”  _

“You can eat your share here until you are sick of them,” Chat Noir offers, a grin playing on his lips as he brings the spoon up to his mouth. 

“Tough luck. I’m never going to get sick of seafood.” 

His nose wrinkles. “I am not quite as fond of it as you are.” 

Marinette’s spoon comes to a halt. “Why?” 

“I…cannot remember.” Chat shrugs. “The smell—and the taste—just reminds me of something unpleasant, but I do not know what.” 

She knows better to pry. Curse or not, the way Chat averts his eyes tells her that even forgotten memories don’t automatically mean forgotten pain. 

So instead, she asks, “Can you tell me a bit about magic?” 

He looks grateful for the change of topic, because he nods immediately. Marinette notices, with a hint of amusement, that he’d pushed all the seafood to the side of the plate, leaving it untouched. She almost asks if she can eat his share, but figures that it’s too intrusive and most likely inappropriate. They’ve worked through miles of tangles and resentment between them, but it’s still not enough for Marinette to feel anywhere close to wholly comfortable around Chat. She can only guess that he feels the same. 

“The book mentioned two types of magic,” Chat supplies. “Do you remember?” 

She turns the thought around in her head for a moment. The book has successfully transformed her brain into mush. “There’s… magic. And there’s another one that starts with a  _ P,  _ right?” 

Chat Noir nods. “Paramagic,” he confirms. “The line between these two types is very blurred and in my knowledge, no one is very certain where the divide begins. Generally speaking, though, magic simply corresponds to nature. Such as the ability to manipulate the elements— _that_ is magic. Paramagic translates into “beyond” magic—it was more or less invented through the manipulation of magic.” 

He must’ve seen the confusion on Marinette’s face, because Chat gives her a sheepish look. “I can demonstrate to you, if you would like.” 

“Demonstrate?” Marinette echoes. “You  _ know  _ how?” 

“Yes, but I am somewhat rusty.” 

Suddenly, the man in front of her appears in an entirely different light. Marinette’s breath catches in her throat. “I had no idea you knew how. Is it… I don’t know much about it, but my town used to talk about it. We would have travelling witches who claimed they could read our fortunes through magic or fix baldness or sell tokens that would bring luck, but my father never let me get anywhere close to them because he thought magic was dangerous, and—” 

Her throat closes fully. The word  _ father  _ is like an invisible fist that closes around her chest, squeezing until Marinette can’t breathe. Tears burn the back of her eyes like acid, and Marinette nearly stabs her fork into her dish just so she can avert her gaze. Between reading, writing and the curse, she hasn’t had much time to think about him. 

But it’s one thing to think about him, and another to reminisce out loud. And it  _ still  _ hurts. 

“Marinette?” Chat Noir is leaning forward over the table. “Are you alright? Is it… is it something I said?” 

Marinette clenches her fist until the feeling of her nails digging into her palm snaps her out of it. She looks up at him and tries to smile. “I’m fine,” she reassures, hoping her voice doesn’t tremble. “Can you explain it again? About magic and paramagic, and how you know how to use it?” 

He seems eager to move on. “Like I said, magic mostly corresponds to the elements. Say I want to summon a small breeze on a hot summer day. That would be magic. Or perhaps I want to start a fire when it is too cold. Are you following?” 

“So… if I wanted to make it rain, that would be magic?” 

Chat nods. “Raining is a bit hard, though.” 

“I think I get it.”

“Good. Now, paramagic is an extension of that. While magic itself is a connection with the makings of the world itself, paramagic reaches outside those boundaries. To supposedly see into someone’s future is paramagic. But paramagic—it is more or less manmade, an extension of nature, warped beyond its original shape.” 

Marinette isn’t sure she’ll fully understand without a demonstration, but she nods anyway. 

“You might have heard of another name for paramagic, actually. Many people just refer to it as dark magic.” 

She recognizes that one. “Dark magic?” 

“Yes. Most… commoners don’t differentiate between parmagic and magic, referring to both—or all—as dark magic. They have a point, though. Many proclaimed witches and magicians only use paramagic, from what I know. It is much easier to learn and practice, even if the price is much steeper.” 

“Do you know paramagic or magic?” 

“Both, but I try to steer clear of paramagic. It hasn’t earned the title of dark magic for no reason.” 

Marinette ponders his words for a second before realizing that the conversation has successfully distracted her from dinner. She pulls the plate closer to her. Her mind still reels from the information, but the basics are slightly easier to grasp. “Is the curse paramagic, then?” 

“The curse…” Chat’s eyebrows furrow. “I would suppose so. It does not seem to be  _ magic,  _ at any rate.” 

They reach a dead end. She supposes that Chat’s silence indicates that he doesn’t know enough about the curse to reach a verdict. 

“There is another category, though,” Chat says when the quiet stretches for a little too long. “I am not too certain about this—most of my knowledge comes from books, anyway—but few sources cite creation and destruction to be the oldest forms of magic. There are little texts about it that I have found in the archives and most of it warns the reader not to dabble in any form of such primal magic.” 

Marinette holds up four fingers. “So there’s magic—which is the elements and nature, mostly—then there’s paramagic, which is… kind of manmade? It’s basically all the tales I’ve ever heard about dark magic. Spells, all that stuff?” She peers at Chat for confirmation. He nods, so Marinette folds down two more fingers. “Then there’s creation and destruction.” 

“Those ones I am not completely certain of,” Chat admits. “Like I said, there are only certain texts that explore it, and even then, the information is very limited. I would stick with magic and paramagic for now. It will make things simpler for you.” 

There isn’t anything about this that can be described as  _ simple.  _ But Marinette, not wanting to voice her confusion to Chat, only nods. “I think I mostly understand it.” 

“Good, because once you get into magic, it is much less straightforward.” 

Curiosity peaked, she asks, “Can you show it to me now?” 

“Not today. But if you would like, we can spend some time reading and writing tomorrow, then I will show you a bit of magic. And maybe… teach you a bit.” 

Marinette leans forward so much that she nearly puts her elbows in the soup. “You really will teach me?” 

“Depends on your affinity for magic,” Chat corrects quickly. “There are a couple of people in the palace I have tried to teach.”

"Has anyone really succeeded?" 

His voice wavers slightly. "One." 

“Rena?”

“No, not her. It was...someone else.” 

The words are heavy, sinking into the room like the air is made of quicksand. The words  _ someone else  _ are said with infinite care, and the look on Chat’s face tells her that whoever this had been had meant quite a lot to him. She contemplates probing for more information, but decides against it. There’s enough for her to process today, but she files the information carefully in the back of her head to bring up once again in the near future. 

“I’m sorry,” Marinette blurts before she can stop herself. 

He pauses. “Sorry for…?” 

“She—or he—isn’t here anymore, right?” 

The story reflects behind his green eyes, close yet  _ just  _ out of reach. Marinette wonders if asking will give her answers, or if it’s simply better not to know. 

In the end, Chat is the one who flashes her a smile without answering her question. “Are you done?” he asks, gesturing to her plate. “Because if you are, I can have them bring up the dessert.” 

_________

Dessert is a much more lighthearted matter. Chat Noir directs the conversation entirely from magic to her favourite sweets, and Marinette enthusiastically shares her favourite recipes from the bakery and makes a promise that in turn for the literacy lessons, she will teach him how to make mooncakes.

It’s a strange thought, one she can’t quite picture: the prince, all dressed in gold thread and dark shadows, kneading dough in the kitchens. Still, there’s nothing to lose in teaching him, and the image entertains Marinette all the way back to her room. 

As she pulls the heavy doors open and peers inside, she realizes the sun has already begun its descent: beyond the curtains that sway like ghosts, the sky is painted brilliant hues of red and orange and yellow. It’s another reminder of just how fast time slips past. 

“I will leave you for tonight,” Chat Noir murmurs. “We will continue the lessons tomorrow.” 

“On magic as well?” Marinette asks again, in confirmation. 

His eyes crinkle in the corners, lips lifting. He has a lovely smile, Marinette realizes. Then belated horror sinks in at her own thoughts.  _ Chat Noir. Lovely smile. What?  _

“On magic as well,” he echoes back to her. 

For another couple seconds, they stand face to face, Marinette one step into her room, still peering out from behind the door. The light from the halls is a harsh one—torchlight always seems to create more shadows than it chases away—but the fading sunlight pouring from her room illuminates his features, lending a glow to every bit of him that can catch light: his golden hair, the engravings on his mask, his eyes. 

It’s becoming a little easier to trust his words and a little harder to reconcile him as the one responsible for this curse, and it’s a dangerous line to toe. 

Chat breaks away from the stillness first. He takes her wrist gently, then lifts it to his mouth and presses a featherlight kiss against the back of her hand. “Goodnight, m’lady,” he says quietly. 

He slips off just like that, blending into the torchlight shadows. Marinette does not move until his figure and footsteps have both faded. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah it was a bunch of lore :'))) i'm almost thru fleshing it all out tho, woohoo! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [e-milieeee!](https://e-milieeee.tumblr.com/)


	10. in my veins

Dusk is grey today. 

It’s strange how fast the weather changes: just an hour ago, the sunset had been a brilliant palette of warm hues. Now the sky is veiled by dark, charcoal clouds that hang low in the sky like angry soot. Despite the awful colour, Marinette still repeats her everyday ritual of sitting on the balcony, wrapped in blankets, staring at the sky as it begins to darken. 

It gives her a warped sense of home, but kinship nonetheless. At times, she gazes at the maze of trees far beyond the white city and tries to imagine where the endless woods finally end and the path leading to a small town begins. There, Marinette pictures herself walking down the path, through the houses and shops before turning right to see the hearty glow of her father’s bakery. 

_ Thirty days,  _ she promises herself, not daring to dream of failing yet knowing better to believe in succeeding. 

There’s a faint glow of the sun as it slips beneath the horizon. Then, as darkness extends fully, Marinette rises to return to her room. 

Something tumbles out of her pocket. She bends down to inspect it only to see a small slip of paper. 

It’s too dark to read what’s written on it, so she heads inside, where the lamps have been lit—the magic of the palace, she supposes. Marinette settles herself comfortably on the bed before squinting at the paper. 

Chat Noir’s elegant scrawl is unmistakable. She’s become very well acquainted with his penmanship, but the words he’s written still take Marinette some time to sound out. 

She spells the first word out. “Sweet,” she muses aloud. The next word is slightly more difficult, and Marinette has to try a couple sounds before settling with one. “Dreams. Sweet dreams.” The last word is foreign, but she guesses it with much more certainty than the first two.  _ M’lady.  _ Of  _ course.  _

_ Sweet dreams, m’lady.  _

Marinette smiles despite herself, curling up in bed. A little while of shut-eye is alright, especially because Adrien won’t be here until midnight. 

_ Sweet dreams, m’lady.  _

Exhaustion washes over her in a soothing breath, and the words on the paper slip ring over and over until they are not written but spoken in the now-familiar voice of a certain masked prince. 

She falls asleep warm and comfortable. 

________

Light slants into Marinette’s room when she wakes up. 

Then it hits her.  _ Light.  _

_ Adrien.  _

She’s sprawled inelegantly over the covers, having kicked most of them off in her sleep. The drawn curtains aren’t enough to keep the sunbeams from spilling through lazily, and the fact that she’s completely slept through the night for once hits Marinette like a hammer. 

Marinette scrambles into a sitting position. 

_ Adrien.  _

She tumbles off the bed, runs to the mirror and yanks a brush through a couple of times. She hadn’t bothered changing into a nightgown last night, but the clothing from the day prior is rumpled. Taking one last glance at the windows (judging by the color of the sky, dawn is just beginning to break), she throws on a new dress and cloak and practically flings open the doors. 

A servant girl is passing by when Marinette runs into the hallway, guilt and panic settling into her stomach. The girl is nearly sent flying, and with a couple of hasty apologies, Marinette’s on her way again. 

The fact that the servants are out and the sun is rising means that Adrien is most likely gone, which leaves Marinette feeling downright awful. She turns down the hallways without any clear direction of where she’s heading, right into one of the many lounges. 

A boy, back turned to her, is talking to Rena. His golden hair reminds her of her now-missing target, but the embroidered black clothing and the cat’s ears sitting on top of his head are a clear identifier that he is not the person she’s looking for. 

Chat Noir turns around before Marinette can speak up. His gaze brightens when he sees her. “Somebody is up rather early today,” he notes with a grin.

Adrien is undoubtedly gone, if so many of the castle’s staff is out and above. Marinette tries to quell the disappointment and guilt, but her expression must’ve been all too easy to read because Chat’s smile turns into a slight frown. “Marinette? Are you okay?” 

She swears Rena rolls her eyes and mutters something along the lines of  _ here it goes again.  _

Marinette straightens. “I’m okay,” she reassures. “Just…” She considers bringing Adrien up again, but between Chat’s concerned gaze and Rena’s curious one, she suddenly loses courage to. “I just miss home.” 

It’s a sensitive enough topic that neither of them push further. Instead, Rena beams at her so brightly that it could’ve rivalled Chat’s smile. “I heard you two are getting along splendidly.” 

Chat exchanges a look with Marinette, but leaves her to answer the question. 

Marinette opts for avoiding it. “He’s teaching me how to read.” 

“I know.” 

“And I’m also going to learn magic today,” she supplies, a little uselessly.

“I know,” Rena repeats, this time with a dry smile. “I won’t steal him for too long. We’re just finalizing the plans for the ball, since Queenie’s angry for some reason and  _ she  _ was supposed to do it last night.” 

Marinette perks up at the mention of Queen Bee. “Do you think I could speak to her?” 

“Who, Queen Bee?” Underneath the mask, Marinette is positive the girl has raised her eyebrows. “There’s nothing stopping you from speaking to her if you can find her, but no one can guarantee she’ll listen. Why?” 

Marinette decides to carefully steer clear of Adrien still. “I want to apologize for something I said to her.” 

Rena’s expression turns even more surprised. “ _ You’re  _ apologizing? Not the other way around?” 

“Yes…?” 

She mutters something else under her breath. Ignoring Chat’s questioning gaze, Marinette waits for the verdict. Finally, Rena rolls her shoulders. “I’ll take you to her this afternoon, then,” she tells Marinette. “But you’re taken for the morning, so I won’t interrupt that.” She winks at Chat Noir—blatantly, unashamedly obvious—and the prince turns away with a slight shake of his head. 

Then with a cheerful wave, she’s off, leaving Marinette alone with Chat once more. 

________

Chat Noir insists they practice reading and writing first before the magic lessons, which Marinette grudgingly agrees with. 

So passes another long two hours of struggling and frustration, with Chat’s infinite well of patience the only thing keeping them going. By the time he announces a lunch break (and the magic lessons that will follow), Marinette is more than happy to take her tired eyes off the book and shake the soreness from her fingers. 

The look Chat gives her is coolly amused. “You will get used to it.” 

“I hope so,” Marinette grumbles, flexing her hand. For her sanity, she likes to pretend that her writing has gotten slightly prettier. 

Chat answers a couple more questions about magic—mostly about distinctions about magic and paramagic. Nothing is very concrete, but by the time they finish lunch and head towards what Chat calls the arenas, Marinette is practically bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement. 

The air is chilly as they cross through the gardens, even if the clothing Marinette wears is thicker than what she used to own. The trees are almost threadbare—a last couple of brave leaves cling onto the branches, shivering violently at every slight gust of wind. The garden itself is full of a skeletal reminiscence of summer: apart from the rosebushes, everything else has withered under the cold hand dealt by the recent weather. 

Then, further down the stone path, she spots the rise of yet another building. She blinks: it shouldn’t be surprising, given how large the palace is (which extends to its gardens, of course), but she hadn’t noticed it when she and Adrien had been outside. Now, in the full light of the sun she can make out the rise of what looks like an archaic styled hall, complete with ivory pillars and a high, domed roof. 

Chat notices her looking. “It is the training hall,” he supplies. “Or what I think it was. There are targets, arenas, weapons and much more, and it should be enough for us to practice magic today. When— _ if  _ you take on magic well we might have to move it outside, but for now, the hall should do. Besides, it has gotten rather cold outside.” 

She nods her agreement. “Do you know how to fight?” she asks. 

“Fight? As in with a blade?” 

Marinette isn’t able to help giving him a grin. “Yes. I heard it’s a prerequisite for princes to charge valiantly into battle with a ridiculously gilded sword, so I figured that one or two of those myths might apply to you as well.” 

Chat mirrors her grin with one of his own. “You are in luck, m’lady, because I in fact  _ do  _ know how to wield a sword. I find the ones with simple grips much easier to use than the gilded ones, though.” Then, as an afterthought he asks, “Do you know how?” 

“A sword? No peasant could afford a  _ sword  _ at the blacksmith’s even if they gave up their meals for a week.” 

His expression turns careful. “I see.” 

Not wanting to sour the mood, Marinette adds, “I’m a decent shot with the bow and arrow, though.” 

Chat’s eyes widen in curiosity, and to Marinette’s own interest, the ears on top of his head seem to perk up as well. She hadn’t known his ears mirrored his expressions, and it’s surprisingly endearing.“You can shoot?” 

“Somewhat,” Marinette amends. “I’m not  _ that  _ great and I’ve never really had the resources to practice, but… I used to hunt a bit in the winter when food got particularly scarce.”

“I have never learned how to use a bow and arrow,” Chat admits. They are approaching the training hall: it’s even larger now that they’re close, an intimidating rise of perfected architecture. “When I first… the first months into the curse, I was still trying to feel out what I could and could not do. There are things that I have learned that the curse did not erase—such as general knowledge of history, sword fighting and even some songs I seem to have memorized on the piano, but shooting was something I suppose I was never trained in. I picked up the bow and arrow one day and…” He gives her a slight grin. “The string snapped against my cheek and left quite a nasty bruise. Figured it was not worth another try.” 

Marinette tries to picture Chat Noir holding a bow and arrow like it’s something foreign, messing up when he tries to fire it—and, God forbid, hitting himself in the face. The image does not quite make any logical sense: with him, she can only imagine perfect, perfect, and more perfect. 

It makes all the more funny. “I’ll add it to my list of things I am to teach you, then,” she tells him breezily, catching a hint of his slightly chagrined smile as they near the large doors. 

Chat Noir has to shove his shoulder against the wood and metal in order for it to finally creak open. With the earsplitting sound of metal rusted with time and water, the large doors labour open to reveal an equally unused training hall. 

Despite the sunlight slanding through the large glass windows near the roof, torches that line the wall still flicker to life. It doesn’t do much for the warmth, however, and Marinette pulls her cloak closer against her body as the chilliness seeps deep into her bones. 

“Can you teach me to summon fire?” she asks through chattering teeth. “That seems to be the most useful element right now.” 

Chat Noir’s laugh is warm enough that it cuts through the cold like a knife through hot butter. “I love your enthusiasm, but I am afraid it will be a while before any fire summoning can be done.” 

_ Of course.  _ There was also the whole matter of figuring out her affinity for magic, which Marinette couldn’t imagine she would possess much of. It was easy to get caught up in the excitement and thrill of what was going on, ignoring the very possible reality that she was likely to have a mighty-grand-absolutely-no affinity for magic. 

Instead of voicing that concern, she rolls her shoulders, ready to at least  _ try  _ something that doesn’t require being cooped up in the castle and hunched over a desk. “Okay, where do we start?” 

Chat tilts his head thoughtfully. “Actually, I want to see you shoot,” he decides. “I cannot be certain of your skill, and magic works the best when being guided in with direction. I read that it is common for many to master the art of swordsmanship before taking on magic, because it is most often seen as another extension of your weapons, and much easier to control when you already have that foreknowledge. I would assume that it would also apply to a bow and arrow.” 

It’s an easy enough request to oblige. As they walk to the wall where all the weapons are displayed in a dangerous array, Chat tells her, “The biggest difference between magic and paramagic is its cost. While magic demands your own energy and therefore most people know their limits, paramagic takes energy from other life forms. A flower. A bird. A human.” 

Marinette glances over the weapons, trying to suppress the shudder that runs up her spine at those words. “So the cost of paramagic is always something—or some _ one  _ else.” 

“Right.”

_ Ah.  _ So those proclaimed witches and their travelling carts, with magic mirrors and fortune-telling orbs—Marinette shudders to think of them. Is  _ this  _ what they had used their wide collection of animals for? The thought lingers uncomfortably in the back of her mind as she turns her attention back to the wall, approaching the area where bows and quivers lay. 

These weapons are all of the finest assortment; Marinette can tell the moment she lays her fingers on the handle. The makeshift ones she had at home had been built by her and her father together—crude and rough, but it had done its job. 

A little gingerly, she picks up the bow, aware of Chat’s gaze on her. Her hand fits around the grip almost perfectly, even if the bow is much heavier than what Marinette is accustomed to. She weighs it in her hands for a couple of moments. 

“Does paramagic always require somebody to take the energy from someone else?” she asks as she slings the quiver over her back. It’s the unreadable way he’s looking at her that makes the silence a little harder to bear, and Marinette feels as if she has some sort of obligation to herself to break it. “And magic is  _ always  _ from yourself? No exceptions?” 

“Yes, at least from what I know. But… things may be different, and the insight provided in books differs in the specifics. This is what is generally accepted as fact.” He eyes her. “But it shouldn’t matter, because we will not be attempting paramagic either way.” 

He says it firmly enough for Marinette to know that he’s most likely not going to change his mind. 

It’s not as if she  _ wants  _ to. Learning magic is one thing, but paramagic  _ does  _ seem to live up to its namesake: dark magic. And Marinette isn’t stupid. 

“That’s fine with me,” she tells Chat as she walks over to the archery range, still adjusting her grip around the bow. When she reaches the marked line, Marinette draws an arrow and notches it onto the bow. 

“Don’t expect much,” she warns Chat, who watches apprehensively from the side. “I’ve never formally trained in this.” 

“I hit myself in the face when I first attempted,” he reminds her, the sharp canines showing when he grins. “And between us two, I did not even manage to fire the arrow. It landed at my feet.” 

It coaxes a laugh out of her, enough for Marinette to loosen her form and straighten her back, drawing back the string and squinting at the target. She reminds herself that Chat Noir is simply watching so intensely because he needs to gauge where she’s at in order for the magic-training to go easier, and that it means nothing more. 

She aims, pulls the string taut, then releases. 

Marinette knows she’s rusty the moment she lets loose the arrow. It hits the target with a satisfying  _ thunk,  _ sinking into wood—a little off from the bullseye, but still landing in one of the inner rings. 

It’s a decent shot all right, even if that mere centimeter away is still miles from perfect. She rolls her shoulders and sets the bow down. “There,” Marinette tells Chat. “We can start the magic lessons now, right?” 

Chat Noir isn’t looking at the target but still at her. All of a sudden, his green eyes are harder to meet than before, and Marinette finds herself fixing on a point below his nose, where the dip of his gold-and-black mask ends. “Chat?” 

Chat blinks once, quickly. Then he snaps out of his little reverie and gives her a sheepish grin. “Sorry,” he says. “I was… thinking about something else.” His eyes flicker quickly to the target, where Marinette’s arrow still protrudes, then moves back to her and the bow in her hands. He straightens. “Yes. We will start now.”

________

Marinette still has no clue what sort of help archery would’ve offered in learning magic, because a couple minutes in, Chat Noir has been teaching her breathing techniques and she finds out that there is nothing about magic that is quite at all magical. 

She has learned to be still when hunting; when one wrong footfall would send a week’s dinner skittering out of reach, every single breath had to be calculated. But now, Chat Noir instructs for the third time, “Breathe  _ deeply.”  _

A single dagger, balancing by the flat bottom of the hilt, stands a couple of meters away. They start with air magic: she’s to summon a breeze that’s enough to knock the blade over. 

It had looked easy when Chat Noir demonstrated; he’d taken a breath, exhaled, and sent a gust of wind strong enough to knock over one of the targets  _ whooshing  _ down the hall. Marinette had just gaped at him. 

She follows Chat Noir’s every single instruction, from relaxing her body to the stance; feet apart slightly, back straight, eyes fixed on the target. She fills her lungs up with as much air as she can then lets it out, but someway or another, there’s a formula to breathing deeply which she  _ just can’t get.  _ Marinette knows all about holding her breath, knows how to breathe so shallowly that it looks like she’s barely breathing at all, but she’s apparently incapable of taking a deep breath no matter  _ what  _ she tries. 

Ever so patient, Chat Noir tells her, “You cannot let the air you breathe travel only to your lungs.” 

“What is that supposed to  _ mean?”  _ Marinette demands. He may have infinite patience, but her own is limited. 

He has the audacity to look amused. “What I mean is that if you want to control wind, you must allow the breath you take to extend to your whole body. Let it flow through your veins. You must  _ be  _ the air you breathe. It exists in every part of you, yes? So breathe like it does.” 

His explanation confuses her at the same time as it makes sense. Shaking off the frustration, Marinette breathes in deeply once more. A breeze. All she has to do is summon a breeze. 

_ If you have an affinity for magic, then you have a close tie with nature,  _ Chat Noir had explained right before they started.  _ It is not everyone that is gifted with this, so I cannot guarantee you will be able to use magic no matter how hard you try.  _

Marinette takes another deep breath and tries to picture it. The air, flowing through her lungs and into her veins until it rushes through every fiber of her being.  _ A cold inhale of winter air, then watching as the exhale appears in front of her in a faint puff of white. A careful monitoring of her breath as she levels the arrow at the snow-white hair. Each desperate lungful of air she gulps down as she runs, crashing through briars and branches, the shade hot at her heels.  _

Not everyone had an affinity for magic, Chat claims. Perhaps she doesn’t. 

But Marinette isn’t going to take  _ no  _ for an answer, not now. She stares at the dagger balanced paces away and breathes in once more. There is a faint tug in her stomach, one that is foreign but feels  _ right.  _

She exhales. The dagger remains in place, no sign of a breeze anywhere inside the hall. 

For a moment, there is silence. 

“Maybe—” Chat Noir begins. 

Then the windows above them explode. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more kinda-lore! honestly this was one of my favourite chapters to write :D mm the feelings are stirringgg n the plot FINALLY starting to pick up :'))
> 
> leave feedback if you can! it's awesome hearing everyone's thoughts. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [e-milieeee!](https://e-milieeee.tumblr.com/)


	11. two steps forward, three steps back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im rly late & rly sorry abt that :(( 
> 
> also thank you [bren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrenanaBread/pseuds/BrenanaBread) for discussing plot with me esp bc i dont know whats going on.... ur the real mvp <3

Marinette likes to think she has a fast reaction, but Chat Noir is even quicker than she is. 

The glass windows above them shatter with a deafening  _ boom,  _ the sound piecing and sudden. With all the concentration she’s put into thinking about magic, the source of the noise connects a second too late—but before she can properly react, Chat’s tugged her towards him. In one swift movement she’s tucked underneath the wing of his cloak and the glass shatters like rain all around them. 

As the ringing of the glass finally shifts into silence, the only sound Marinette can hear is her own heavy breathing: shaky, short breaths, trembling from shock. 

The shock melts into confusion, but her limbs unpetrify. Marinette pulls away from Chat, and he jerks back with equally stiff movements, green eyes wide underneath the mask. The glass crunches like bones beneath her feet. 

The added weight of silence makes their surroundings both crisp and sluggish as once, and words dance at the tip of her tongue but refuse to come out. Finally, after a disjointed survey of the damage around her, Marinette manages out, “What happened? What  _ was  _ that?” 

Chat looks like he’s struggling just as much as her to form words. There’s something behind his green eyes; the confusion mirrors her own, but a hint of something more. Fear? Shock? “That was… magic,” he breathes out. 

The glass has knocked over the sword that Marinette had previously been tasked to. “Magic from you?” 

“Not me,” Chat replies weakly. “From you.” 

Despite the whispering doubts, hearing him say it is very different. Disbelief rears its ugly head. “That’s impossible,” Marinette snaps, unable to help herself. She doesn’t dare move with the destruction all around her. The arena, which had just begun to warm up from the chill of winter, once more cools as cold air flows through the broken windows. “You told me to summon wind to knock down that sword, and I couldn’t do it. That doesn’t… that doesn’t explain the windows.” 

Chat lifts his head to survey said windows. “You simply summoned enough wind to break them.” 

He says it like a fact; Marinette cannot believe it to be so. 

“I didn’t do that,” she argues, though her resolve is crumbling. “That’s impossible. I couldn’t even summon a breeze.” 

“Yet somehow, these windows are broken—by magic.” Chat takes a step towards her but freezes when the snap of glass, sharp enough to cut through sinew and bone, stabs into the silence. “I know it might be hard to believe, Marinette, but… you are skilled in magic. Only someone with a vast affinity for it would be able to summon so much with so little practice.”

The thought doesn’t quite compute. Her. Magic. They seem to be things that lie on opposite spectrums, and Marinette manages one last incredulous shake of her head. She’s been expecting to come out of their magic lessons frustrated and useless like the reading and writing lessons—but this? “Why would  _ I?”  _

His eyes and voice are equally steady. She wonders just how Chat managed to get over his shock so quickly, because it’s still there, pulsing in her bones. 

“Did you not feel it?” he tilts his head. “Before you summoned that wind. It differs from person to person, but when magic is summoned, the user more often than not feels something. And… summoning so much magic should drain your energy.” Worry flashes across his face. “It might catch up to you soon, especially because your body is untrained to this sort of strain. How do you feel right now?” 

He’s right about the first part; that she’d felt  _ something  _ right before the windows had shattered; the faint tug of nothing and something all at once. It hadn’t been concrete enough for Marinette to focus on it, and now the feeling settles back into oblivion until she’s convinced she’d imagined it. 

“It’s not possible,” she repeats once more. “Besides, I don’t feel tired at all. I feel the same.” 

Chat eyes her warily. “It takes some time to catch up. I am certain that was you.” 

Marinette manages a single step forward, forgetting the glass that still litters the floor. The snap of it under her feet is interrupted by an abrupt wave of black that sweeps over her vision, and she stumbles. 

Chat surges forward immediately, and she feels herself hoisted up around the elbows. “Marinette?” he asks, panic seeping into his voice. “What’s wrong?” 

She squints up at him. The dark spots fade from her eyes but the sluggish feeling latches on. She blinks at Chat, who is awfully close.  _ Too  _ close for comfort. 

“I’m okay,” she insists, straightening on her own. Her whole body feels heavy. “I think I just need to sit down for a while.” 

Chat Noir doesn’t let go of her arm, and Marinette tries to shake off his grip. He’s far too strong, and he seems intent on holding her steady. “You don’t need to help me.” She takes a step to prove her point. “Look, I’m fine. Seriously.” 

“I’m supporting over half your weight right now.” 

Another dizzy spell hits her. “I’m—” 

“—exhausted from all that magic use,” Chat fills in for her, a note of finality in his voice. “Let’s go back to the castle.” 

A protest wells up, but Marinette really  _ can’t  _ explain why the fatigue has sunk deep into her bones and why her vision is blurring so suddenly, so she gives in. 

A couple steps later and she stops, head spinning much more than before. “Marinette?” Chat’s voice is still awfully close, but she closes her eyes. 

“Just a small break,” she tells him. “Then we’ll go back.” 

His reply is nonsensical and faraway. Marinette wants to open her eyes again but they refuse to do so. Instead, she feels herself being lifted up, settling into a steady pair of arms.  _ Chat is carrying me,  _ she thinks woozily, but still, her eyes don’t open. 

Then even that feeling fades away, and the rest is oblivion.

________

The first thing Marinette registers when she comes to is the incessant pounding in the back of her head. 

Then she hears the arguing, and a little reluctantly, she forces her eyes open. 

She’s lying on a couch, much like the one she’d woken up on the first day at the palace. Late afternoon sunbeams slants through a window right across from her. Somebody has draped a woollen blanket over her, and she’s tucked snugly under it. 

“It was magic,” Chat’s familiar voice is arguing. “I have never seen  _ anyone  _ summon so much power on their first try.” 

“And?” The second voice is foreign. Marinette lies still to listen to their conversation. “You’re already training her, aren’t you? There should be nothing more to do.” 

“Maybe she can break the curse.” 

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Why do you look so grim about it?” 

Chat lets out a huff of air. “It  _ is  _ a good thing.” 

“Although from what we know, magic affinity has never been a deciding factor when it comes to the curse. Best for you not to rest all your hopes on that. I’ll continue digging in the archives and you can continue to train her, but…” 

Marinette sits up, a little too quickly. Her vision flashes. “But what?” 

Chat Noir jumps in surprise, his previously relaxed ears flickering up. “You scared me.” 

She scrutinizes him for a couple moments before turning her attention to Chat’s companion. He wears simple clothing; much simpler than the ones Chat chooses to wear, yet not servant’s robes. Like everyone else, a mask sits on his face, this one green and yellow. He’s dark-skinned and golden-eyed, standing at a height a smidge taller than the prince. 

“You’re awake,” he says simply. 

Marinette stares at him for a couple moments more and comes to the conclusion she’s never seen him before. “You are…?” 

“Forgive my manners. My name is Carapace.” His gaze flickers to Chat for a moment. “I’ve been a bit busy these couple of days so I didn’t get the chance to greet you. Your name is Marinette?”

She nods slowly, then begins the laborious process of standing up. Chat Noir barely wastes a moment to offer his help, but Marinette shakes her head at his hand. A bit reluctantly, he tucks it behind his back again. 

“I’m okay now,” she reassures him, cautiously rising to her feet. “Um… Carapace? What were you talking about before?” 

His golden eyes crinkle. “Just a bit about your magic. It was quite a display you put up back in the arena. I saw what happened to the windows.” 

Marinette winces. Her whole body feels sore and the dull ache in the back of her head doesn’t subside, but she still forces herself to step around the couch so she can stand face to face with Carapace. “Sorry about the windows,” she apologizes sheepishly. 

He regards her with a steady, warm gaze, then offers an equally warm smile. “It’s perfectly fine.” 

“Carapace is the second person who came here to break the curse,” Chat explains from by her shoulder. “You probably do not see him around as many of the other people in the palace, but I was thinking of introducing you two soon. I did not expect it to be like… this.” 

Marinette can’t think of a response to that, so she mouths,  _ Oh.  _

Thankfully, saving them from any further awkward conversation, Carapace dips his head at her. “I’m needed elsewhere soon, so I’m afraid I have to leave you with Chat Noir now.” 

Something about the way he says it coaxes a small smile out of Marinette. “That’s okay. I’m used to his company by now.” 

“I am not sure if you are saying that as a good thing or not,” Chat grumbles.

Carapace throws the prince a looser grin before he sweeps out of the room. 

For a breath, she and Chat stand in unyielding silence, neither speaking. It’s the silence of unspoken words, the gap filled to the brim with tension and neither wanting to cross it first. 

Chat extends the olive branch. “So,” he says, and Marinette turns to face him. “How are you feeling?” 

The words are carefully chosen, and his tone makes her peek up at him. Since the cautious friendship they’ve struck after the reading lessons—which has now turned into a more comfortable rhythm—this feels like three steps back after two steps forward. 

“I’m feeling fine.” She shuffles her feet on the ground. “How long was I out?” 

“Around three hours. It’s late afternoon now.” He hesitates. “You do believe me now, right? That the magic was you?” 

There’s nothing more Marinette can say or think to properly deny the claim—the evidence stacks up perfectly. So she says, “I believe you.” 

Marinette hates the silence that follows with a passion. 

Again, Chat breaks it first. He clears his throat. “It’s practically dinnertime,” he tells her. “Do you want to join me again, or…?” 

Outside, shadows elongate and the sun dips lower beneath the horizon. It’s getting late; a couple more hours before Adrien will be here. And also half an afternoon wasted; precious time that she might not be able to afford to lose in the long run. 

“Maybe tomorrow?” she tells Chat, trying not to get too hung up on how his ears drop slightly. She  _ wants  _ to eat dinner with him; she really does. But it simply isn’t efficient nor is it practical, not when there’s still so much left to do. “Um… maybe tell the cooks to send up dinner to my room. I need to talk to Queen Bee.” 

His eyebrows raise at that. “Would you like me to come with?” 

“Somehow, I think she would be less aggressive if you weren’t there.” She winces. “I think this is something I need to figure out myself first. And… and I want a little more time to think about what happened today.” 

Chat’s eyes flicker over her, and for a brief moment, Marinette wonders if he’ll perhaps refuse the request. But nothing else shows on his face apart from a smile, this one slightly strained, and he nods. “That will be best. Is there anything else you want to know?” 

Marinette thinks back to the way the windows had shattered above them, the feeling between breaths; the silent, whispering pull of something else entirely. Magic. 

There’s a lot more she wants to know and a lot more she wants to learn, but for now—not with Chat. 

“It’s alright,” she reassures him, then adds as an afterthought: “We’re still doing reading lessons tomorrow, right? And… magic?” 

“If you would like, then yes.” 

She nods. Then, Marinette straightens. There’s a lot more work left to do. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He echoes her sentiment back to her, polite as ever, and Marinette turns to leave the room and tries to ignore the fact that there’s something awfully inorganic about his tone that pricks her thoughts like a thorn. 

Her steps click down the hallway with an awful amount of noise. It’s strange to walk alone without the footfall of another following her, and Marinette bites back her discomfort and straightens her back. The first order of business is to find Queen Bee—no, Chloe Bourgeois—and figure out how she ties into the curse. Then Adrien—where she swears she’ll get to the bottom of his story tonight. There’s much to patch together, and precious little time to do so. 

Because at the end of the day, that’s what matters—solving the curse. Not the pretty dresses, not the fancy food, and certainly not the prince. She can’t  _ afford  _ to linger on any of it much longer, and Chat Noir’s strange withdrawal perhaps works out best for her even if it stings. 

No amount of convincing untwists that thorn from her side, though, but Marinette has long learned to steel her nerves against such trivial matters. So, forcibly thrusting the thoughts of gold, black and green to the crevices of her mind, she marches off to her destination. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> take carapace. and,,, chat being awkward,, but why? :D 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [e-milieeee!](https://e-milieeee.tumblr.com/)
> 
> feedback is very much appreciated <3


	12. i swear by

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im,,, alive,,, apparently :') some awkward pining, fluff, and your favourite character being rude to marinette :'))) rip chloe

Marinette has no idea where to find Queen Bee, so she makes her way to the sitting room where she'd first met the girl and hopes that  _ she’s  _ the one who will be found. 

Sure enough, about fifteen minutes, it actually works. The door of the room swings open with rather alarming force and Queen Bee steps inside with a tug to her skirt, which balloons out around her. 

Sharp blue eyes immediately fix on hers, and the girl’s nose turns up higher than before. “ _ You,”  _ comes the greeting, the contempt not even veiled. “Why are you in my room  _ again?”  _

Marinette stands up. She’s met with the sort of stare that’s meant to make her feel smaller, but she’s much accustomed to shrugging those off. There’s nothing terrifying about this girl in front of her, who snaps add seethes and shouts with no true promise behind her empty words. 

“I wanted to talk to you,” Marinette replies.

“And I don’t want to talk to you.”

“It’s about the curse.” 

“I don’t care about the curse.” 

Years and years of practice have taught Marinette to keep her cool, which she does. “You may not care about the curse, but I can promise you that many others in this castle do.” 

“So they do.” Queen Bee doesn’t back down either, and Marinette has to admit that the other girl is almost as stubborn as she is.  _ Almost.  _ She’s not going to be the first to stand down. “If you’re so concerned about others in the castle, then I’ll have you know that they would probably be much more helpful than me in solving the curse. I don’t know anything.” 

It makes sense that she doesn’t know—doesn’t know about Adrien, doesn’t know that  _ he knows  _ her, doesn’t remember the time they spent together. But Adrien and this girl in front of her—they are the only clues Marinette has truly grasped about the whole puzzle, two vital pieces of information that she needs to get to the bottom of. 

“I just want to ask a couple of questions.” Marinette tries for a shift of tone. “Just tell me the answers and I’ll let you be.”

“There’s nothing in it for me.” 

Marinette can’t help but ask, “Why does there need to be anything in it for you?” 

Queen Bee shoots her what must be the third look of utter disdain today. “I don’t want to help you at all,” she snaps, “so if you want my answers, then I get something from you in return.” 

Marinette takes a deep breath to steady herself, even if she’s once again reminded of why she dislikes people like Queen Bee. They’re entitled and loud and rude with no regards to other people, and if Marinette were given the choice, she would’ve smacked the other girl. 

But unfortunately, her options are limited, so she tries a different approach. “What do you want?” 

Queen Bee looks at her, then lets out a sharp laugh. “You think you’re in a position to barter with me?” 

“Try me. What do you want?” 

For a couple breaths, neither of them speak, both sizing each other down, unwavering. Then Queen Bee crosses her arms. “Get Chat Noir to attend the ball Rena Rouge and I are throwing, and then I’ll answer five questions of your choosing.” 

That’s enough for her to do a double take. She stares at Queen Bee, from the surprisingly serious look on her face to the slight crease that’s forming between her eyebrows. 

_ She’s not kidding.  _

“Wait.” Marinette shifts her weight to the balls of her feet. “Chat Noir doesn’t attend those parties?” 

Queen Bee’s face falls into a glare as soon as the words leave Marinette’s mouth. “Don’t question it,” she snaps. “If you want my answers, then convince him to go. The moment he promises me that he’ll show up, I’ll help you. Or answer your questions. Whatever.” 

It’s not  _ going  _ to be easy, Marinette has to remind herself. She’d expected this sort of outcome—really, it would be stupid not to. It’s still not the optimal turn-out, given how she had initially wanted to keep Chat Noir from the whole business with Queen Bee until she had reached something more substantial. Now, it seems as if she’ll need the prince’s help in order to even get the girl to talk. 

But Marinette knows that with people like Queen Bee, chances are fleeting. It’s obvious enough that the dislike between them is mutual—perhaps even heavier on the other side, for whatever reason—and bargaining with her is like walking on a tightrope. It’s best to cover distance before a possible fall. 

So Marinette holds out her hand to her. “Alright, Queen Bee,” she says, even if the name that threatens to leave her lips is a real one:  _ Chloe Bourgeois.  _ Marinette keeps that hidden to herself. Not now. “It’s a deal. I get Chat Noir to attend the ball, and you answer the questions I have.” 

She receives another disdainful glance. “I’m not shaking your hand,” Queen Bee sniffs. “Good luck getting Chat Noir to go. If he won’t listen to Rena or I, there’s no reason he would listen to you.” 

“Why make a deal with me if you don’t think I’ll be able to do it?” 

The slight note of hesitation in her body language is enough of a clue for Marinette to hang onto, even though she has to give Queen Bee the credit of fixing her expression back into one of annoyed disinterest in a split second. “I’ll enjoy seeing you fail. Maybe then you’ll finally learn your place.” 

Marinette knows better to take the bait, even if she has to quell the anger that flares. Instead, she smiles at the girl in front of her. Her father tells her that a smile has no right in looking so infuriating; Marinette thinks it’s a perfected art. “We’ll see, then.” 

She’s rewarded by a flicker of surprise. It’s enough for her; Marinette turns on her heel to leave. Queen Bee calls after her, “Don’t talk to me unless you have Chat Noir’s promise. I don’t want to see you otherwise.” 

This time, Marinette can’t help but turn back once more. “Thank goodness I feel the same way,” she responds, then shuts the door before she can hear the retort. 

***

Marinette has her book on magic open in front of her, but her thoughts are in too many places for her to focus on reading. And reading is one task that requires all of her effort; any distraction and the words turn back into ants crawling on a page and she starts making mistakes. 

It’s still a mystery to her how someone as kind as Adrien became friends with Queen Bee. She couldn't have been any less ill-tempered before losing her memories. 

Dinner is delivered to her room by a servant as the sky begins to darken, but now, it’s much earlier than before with winter creeping up like a thief. The main course tonight is fish doused in a generous amount of savoury golden-brown sauce, mouthwateringly fragrant and just as tender, served with jasmine rice. There’s enough seafood in all the dishes for Marinette to suspect Chat playing a hand in the meal. 

She cleans her plate quickly, apparently hungrier than she felt. It’s probably the magic-use, Marinette reasons. Another thing she needs to figure out. Or perhaps  _ figure out  _ isn’t quite it; it’s another thing she needs to accept. 

But neither  _ A Brief History of Magic  _ or past experiences or the simple clockwork of the society cite ownership of powerful magic to illiterate peasant girls. It feels—and probably is—unheard of. From the little she now knows of magic, it isn’t inherited—it simply  _ is.  _ But to have lucked out like so… Marinette wonders if it’s simply how the cards fell, or if something less coincidental is at work behind the scenes. 

Time slips by all-too-quickly when she’s caught up in her thoughts. It’s nearing midnight now, judging from the position of the moon. Marinette closes her book that’s been sitting uselessly in front of her, pulls on her cloak once more, and for extra measure, opens her door a slight crack just for when Adrien comes. A tug of weariness pulls at her eyelids, but Marinette ignores it. She had slept all the way through last night, and Adrien deserves an explanation. 

Surely enough, she hears the muffled sound of footsteps on carpet a couple of minutes later. She scrambles to her feet just as the footsteps stop, and through the sliver of the open door, she spots Adrien. 

Marinette tugs the door open a bit wider. “Hi,” she says, feeling out of breath for no reason whatsoever. 

Adrien meets her gaze with a small smile. “Marinette.” 

Silence lays between them for a moment, until Marinette realizes that he’s probably waiting for her response. “Last night—” she begins, and simultaneously, he says, “If I’m being intrusive—” 

They both break off. Marinette wonders, with no small amount of chagrin, if she can just melt into the ground then and there. 

“You, uh, go first. Or do you want to go somewhere else to talk? It’s probably pointless to just stand there at the door—you can come inside, if you like, or…” She’s rambling now.  _ Why  _ is she rambling? Marinette bites her cheek. “Do you want to come inside?” she asks, this time with more clarity. 

Adrien shifts his weight. “If that’s alright with you.”

Marinette nudges the door open fully. “Of course.” 

His steps are slightly tentative as he enters her room, looking around thoughtfully. It hits Marinette that he’s never actually been inside. 

After a couple moments, Adrien makes his verdict. “It’s… pretty,” he says. 

Marinette toes the carpet under her feet. “It’s okay, it’s not as if I decorated the room myself. Everything that’s here was here before I came.” 

He lets out a breath of—is that relief? “I  _ was  _ thinking it wasn’t your style. Wasn’t sure if the furnishing was your decision.” He wrinkles his nose at the direction of one of the paintings. “That one’s a bit questionable.” 

He manages to coax a laugh out of her, but then she’s reminded that there are things more important than room decor to address and the laugh dies on her lips. “What were you saying before?” she asks. 

Adrien’s face sobers as well. “Oh,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just, um, I was worried that I was being intrusive. I realized that you might not want to see me every night and I know it’s probably tiring for you, and I just wanted to make sure… well, if you don’t want to, you can just tell me. I’m okay with that, too.” 

His eyes are earnest, but if Marinette hadn’t been slightly more observant, she would’ve missed the way his hands were shaking. His fingers curl into loose fists at his side and the trembling stops, and she realizes that it’s fear. He’s afraid of hearing her answer. 

And who wouldn’t be? He’s been alone for  _ years— _ and the one person he’s ever known is long gone. He’s half apprehensive, half hopeful, and fully afraid. It’s a feeling Marinette knows very well. 

“I like your company,” she replies firmly. “So don’t worry—I’ve never found you intrusive. Besides, I’m here to break the curse, and I’m pretty certain that you play an important role, whatever that may be. You’re helping me too. Yesterday was just… I was going to take a nap before seeing you again, but I must’ve been more tired than I thought I was, because I ended up sleeping through the whole night. I didn’t purposefully ignore you, I promise.” 

“Oh.” It’s his turn to look embarrassed, and he gives her a sheepish look. “I—that’s good to hear. And I’ll help you, really. In whatever way I can to break the curse.” 

It feels a little silly to be doing so now, but with the castle silent like it’s holding its breath, as if only she and Adrien are the ones who exist in the moment, Marinette thinks that a little  _ silly  _ can’t hurt. Not when there’s no one to witness but them two. So she extends her pinky to him. “Deal.” 

Adrien’s nose scrunches in confusion. “Deal?” he echoes. “But why your finger?” 

“It’s called a pinky promise. I promise I’ll find you every night no matter how tired I am, and you promise that you’ll do your best to break the curse with me.”

He hesitates, and Marinette takes it that he doesn’t know what to do. “A promise,” he repeats, and he says the words carefully, like they’re fragile and easily broken. “Is it… bound by anything?” 

His questions are a little strange, but can she blame him? Patience is easy with someone like Adrien, and his seriousness is oddly endearing. “Does it need to be bound by anything?” 

Adrien ponders the question, then holds out his own hand, mimicking her gesture. “Aren’t all promises bound by something?” 

Marinette hooks her pinkie around his. “There. I guess we’ll just have to keep our words.” 

The contact is fleeting, because she pulls her hand away from his a breath later, and Marinette is suddenly well-aware of how close they are standing. It had been easy to get caught up in the moment, intent on reassuring him that  _ no,  _ she wasn’t tired or sick of his presence—but now with it behind them, it takes all her self control not to leap back to a respectable distance. 

He gauges her reaction readily enough (or perhaps shares a similar sentiment), because both of them take a step back. Adrien rubs the nape of his neck, a sheepish smile now pulling at his lips. “I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions. If there’s anything about the curse you need my help with, please don’t hesitate to ask.” 

“It’s okay.” Marinette shifts her weight. “I’m still not certain enough to know where to search when it comes to the curse, but the prince has been teaching me magic and—” She breaks off, a sudden thought dawning. “You know how to read, right?” 

“Yes?” 

She snatches up  _ A Brief History of Magic  _ from the table and tucks it underneath her arms. “Then you’re going to help me to do some researching tonight.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [e-milieeee!](https://e-milieeee.tumblr.com/)
> 
> also: the bamf marinette tag is added, because marinette turned out to be a lot more badass than i planned. not complaining, though. girl's smart.


	13. burn and breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some lore, fairytales, and Adrienette!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i am incredibly late and also incredibly sorry uhhhhh AHHHH

“Typically,” Marinette says, “I’m pretty certain food isn’t allowed in libraries.” 

Adrien, holding now-cold pastries, pauses only a moment to think about it before he shrugs, a small grin playing on his lips. “It’s not a crime if no one catches us breaking the rules.”    


Marinette shakes her head, fighting back her own smile. She doesn’t think Chat Noir will particularly care, given how he’d also brought food in for her, but she’s wary of leaving too many crumbs lying around. She’s not certain if palaces have problems with pests, especially enchanted palaces, but it’s a problem she’d rather not have to deal with here as well. 

They arrive at the giant double-doors of the archives a couple of minutes later. The whole castle feels like a whole different place at night, but when Adrien pushes over the doors and Marinette steps inside the archives, she’s enveloped with a strange sense of familiarity. Maybe it’s because the archives are usually uninhabited, even during the day, so its emptiness at night is nothing new. Whatever the reason, when the double doors creak shut and they stand at the entrance with the red emblem carved into the floor, Marinette thinks that being here with Adrien right now doesn’t feel so different from her reading sessions with Chat Noir. 

She’s also hit with the now-familiar scent of the library. Marinette isn’t as fond of it as she is of the smell of the bakery; of freshly baked bread and of  _ home,  _ but it’s beginning to grow on her all the same. If she were to assign  _ time  _ any scent, then it’s this. Archaic yet lovely; with just a hint of the unknown. 

“Have you been in here before?” she asks Adrien, who's looking at his surroundings with his brow furrowed. 

“I…” He looks around. “A while ago, yes. I wandered here when I first started exploring the palace, but it’s been too long for me to have many clear memories of it.” He shifts his weight. “There’s a much smaller archive a little further down this wing of the palace, but it’s still big enough to still hold quite a decent amount of books. It’s much cozier there. I prefer visiting that library if I want something to read.” 

“Cozier, huh?” Marinette glances at the rows of shelves. There’s the table she and Chat Noir usually sit at, of course, tucked into a part of the wall that makes the space seem—well, a little less  _ open— _ but all in all, the library still gives off a feeling of vastness that makes her feel incredibly small. On most days, it’s a sort of feeling she doesn’t mind, but it’s understandable if Adrien doesn’t feel the same. “We could go there, if you want? The other library.” 

“You might find the books there not to be so helpful.” Adrien gives her a wry smile, but his tone seems layered. “Most of them are fairytales, some are myths, but I doubt you’ll discover any that are particularly telling for solving the curse.” 

Marinette lifts  _ A Brief History of Magic  _ to show him. “I still have to get through this book anyway. I was hoping to maybe take out another one or two, but we can just move there afterwards?” As an afterthought, she adds, “It might be more comfortable there as well.” 

Adrien readily agrees, not offering anything more than a nod. Marinette sees his gaze flickering as they walk, up, to the side, around them—what seems like a sort of nervous habit. He doesn’t stop until they leave the main archives, her with one extra book tucked underneath her arm and Adrien still holding the pastries. 

They walk in silence for a while, Adrien one step ahead of her as he leads the way. He’s a little quiet for some reason, and Marinette once again thinks of how strangely skittish he’d seemed in the library. 

It’s the sort of behaviour that doesn’t escape her notice, but also not exactly the sort of problem she’s accustomed to bringing up. Not with anybody; especially not with Adrien. Because Marinette knows what it’s like to feel unspeakably uncomfortable about something, to chalk it up to nerves when others ask and she surfaces emptyhanded with no explanation in mind. So she leaves it be. She has her fears; Adrien has his, and it’s none of her business to pry. 

So instead, Marinette lets the silence wrap around them, focusing on the sound of their footsteps and thinks of the curse and much more important things. She does not ask Adrien why the library makes him so uncomfortable and why he was so keen to get away, no matter how much she wants to. 

They head deeper into this wing of the palace. It’s unfamiliar territory now. Marinette remembers briefly that the tower with the rose had been on this side, but the castle’s layout had been too confusing back then for her to document it as anything more than winding passages ad infinitum. Even now, she only has an abstract idea of this wing: she knows it from Chat Noir’s map and knows the general area where his room is, but she’s never really been  _ to _ it. 

Adrien, however, navigates the place with ease. Marinette trusts him enough to know that she probably won’t get lost as long as she follows closely, even when her sense of direction is once again swallowed up by twists and turns. 

“Do you like the palace?” she asks suddenly in an attempt to combat the silence, and Adrien’s step hitches a little bit. 

“What do you mean?” 

Marinette shrugs. “I thought it would grow on me, but I think I still prefer somewhere smaller. The castle is too big to feel like home. Do  _ you  _ think it’s home?”

He’s silent for a moment more. Then comes the answer, slightly shorter, tone jilted enough for Marinette to understand that she’s probably hit a nerve. “I don’t think I know any other home.” 

She opens her mouth to apologize, cursing herself for the insensitive question—but Adrien is already turning the knob of a door, an ear-splitting  _ creak  _ erasing the words from her mouth. “We’re here,” he says. 

Marinette decides it’s better not to pursue it and apologize. She peers in—torches flicker in a periphery as they light up, but it’s a small enough room that walls of all four sides are visible in the dim lighting. It’s also lined with rows of books, but in much less quantity than the main archives. She does a quick count—totalling to ten shelves, all rising at a fairly imposing height. Even this place probably holds much more books than the library back in Riviera, Marinette thinks wryly. 

Adrien seems to have recovered somewhat, enough to offer her a smile, this one that reaches his eyes a little bit more. “Welcome?” he asks. “There’s a circle of couches on the far left side of the room. If you want to go through the book, we can sit over there—I’m just going to find a few more. They’re… well, I presume most of these are fictional accounts, but there might be a few that provide insight for magic, if that can offer even a bit of help?” 

Marinette nods. “If you can find any, then sure.” 

They split up: Adrien heads off into the bookshelves, and Marinette follows his instructions to the sitting area. True to his word, there’s a semicircle of couches around a tea table. Like he said, it’s cozy, and Marinette sets down her books on the tea table and takes a seat. 

It’s nothing like the couches back at home. These are the highest quality of material, draped with expensive furs and so wickedly comfortable that Marinette feels borderline sick thinking of it. Everything about this palace is simply a little  _ too  _ perfect, and she wonders what sort of strange magic is at work in doing so. Paramagic, judging from Chat’s explanation. But that barely provides more insight outside of a name, and there’s nothing else she can figure out. 

Marinette has just finished setting up her area on the table when Adrien returns, the pastries in one hand and two books tucked under his arms. “I didn’t see anything extremely useful,” he tells her. “Here’s a couple—I think they’re supposed to be stories telling of the origin of magic, but it’s much less factual than… well.” He sets the book down, and Marinette squints at the title of it. “Old wives tales, I guess. I don’t know if you’ll find anything substantial.” 

It takes her a little less time than usual to read the title (improvement, she reassures herself):  _ Children’s Guide to Magic.  _ The cover art lives up to that title as well, surrounded with colourful imagery that’s just a hint abstract. Marinette reaches over to flip open to the first page, then blinks in surprise at the amount of detailed illustraion spotting the pages. 

“It really  _ is  _ a children’s book,” she marvels. The colours are a hint faded, but they still mark the page with vibrant ink. It’s a painting of a small girl—no more than eleven or twelve, really—kneeling on the ground with her hand pressed to the earth. Colours bleed from her fingertips into the ground, as bright as her red hair, a spectrum of the rainbow. On the other page, mirroring her position sits a boy. Black and grey and dust tumble from his hands, intermixing with the girl’s own. It’s interesting enough for Marinette to give it a second glance, frowning as she peers closer at the image. 

Marinette holds the page up for Adrien to see. “Do you know the stories in this book?” 

“I’ve read a couple. That picture’s about creation and destruction.” 

She straightens. That’s familiar too, even if Chat Noir hadn’t offered nearly enough information as he did on magic and paramagic. “Creation and destruction? What does it say about them?” 

“Well…” Adrien takes the book from her gently, flipping a couple of pages. “It’s a myth, I think. I’ve read many versions of it. I think it’s quite a popular story.” 

Marinette leans back on the couch and settles into the furs on the couch. “Let’s hear it?” 

His lips lift at the corners. “You don’t hit me as one to indulge in fairy tales.” 

“What did I hit you as, then?” 

Adrien lets out a faint laugh this time. “Someone practical,” he replies. “Someone who tries to find the most logical solution to every problem. Someone who probably has a firm grasp on reality.” 

“Well.” Marinette isn’t sure whether to be flattered or surprised. “I guess, somewhat. But nothing about any of this has been any bit so practical, logical, or realistic, so I don’t know if that’s a good thing.” 

“Maybe,” Adrien replies. “But maybe you’ll be surprised if you look hard enough.” 

_ Magic, curses— _ none of them provide any sort of logical problem or solution. Marinette wants to tell him that she  _ has  _ been looking hard, but decides against it at the last moment. “Maybe,” she mumbles, still unconvinced. 

Adrien doesn’t pursue the topic, instead opening the fairy tale book. “You want to hear about the myth?” 

Marinette eyes  _ A Brief History of Magic.  _ She still has a fair amount of reading to do, but her eyelids are growing heavy and listening to Adrien tell a story is a much more tempting proposition than is trying to read on her own. So she nods. “Yeah.” 

He smiles again. “Okay.” The sound of paper crinkling as he turns a page. “This is… actually one of the less popular versions, I think.

“In a small village, near the world’s edge, lived a girl. Her—” 

Marinette lifts her head a bit from the armrest of the couch. “The edge of the world?” she echoes.

Adrien raises his eyes from the book and gives a faux-exasperated look, although he’s still smiling faintly. “It’s a fairytale. It’s probably not going to make much sense.” 

Marinette sighs. “Fair. Continue.” 

“Her family was neither wealthy nor influential, but the girl had many friends. The villagers flocked to her simply because of who she was: even dressed in rags, she gave off a sort of vitality that drew people in. The girl had many friends, and because she was so well-loved, her family soon saw a change to their fortune. They found gifts left at their doorsteps, small sums of money donated that added up until their luck seemed to change altogether. And so the girl and her family were happy. 

“On the other side of town, there was a boy. Unlike the little girl, he was well-off. His parents dressed him in the richest of clothing, fed him the finest of food, and his house was filled to the brim with exquisite toys. They provided him with everything a child could dream of having—everything but love and affection. And so, unlike the girl, the boy became bitter and hateful. 

“He would destroy his toys in hopes of his parents’ attention. They simply bought him more than before and threw out the broken ones. And when there was nothing left in the house for him to destroy, the boy waged his anger against the rest of the village.” 

Marinette blinks, trying to expel the heaviness from her eyes so she can continue to listen. It’s interesting, a little strange, fully… well, understandable. There’s something about the story that’s inexplicably real. She doesn’t know  _ what  _ it is, but the room seems to bleed away until she’s standing there, at world end, in front of the boy with everything and nothing. 

“The villagers were helpless against the child. They knew of his parents and their power; none of them dared to raise a hand against the boy or stop him from the destruction he continued to inflict. People avoided him in the streets, bent to his temper, and did whatever he asked of them. No one understood what he was truly crying out for: for someone to reach their hand out and help him, instead of shying away and letting him go his own way.” 

_ But one day, the boy took it a step too far. He had been threatening the other children with a stick, because this was the closest he could come to playing with them. Another child, too young to know wiser, got in his way. One single misstep later, the child had been accidentally blinded in an eye.  _

_ The village had finally come to wits end against the boy and his behaviour. He was thrown out and banned from the town, and his parents were under enough pressure to take him and lock him up to prevent further havoc. In an attempt to sooth the townspeople’s anger, the parents promised that he would never be let out again, that he would be monitored closely and disciplined for his behaviour.  _

_ Except the boy wasn’t. His parents let him off with a slap on the wrist, and suddenly, the toys and gifts were back in earnest. They bought him souvenirs from their trips, of carved wooden horses of unimaginable prices. The cooks were rehired to suit his tastes, and everything was done to make sure that he could live in the most luxurious prison there was to offer.  _

_ But toys and clothes and food couldn’t bring happiness, and the boy was more miserable than ever. He destroyed his toys, tore his clothing, wrecked his room beyond imagination, but it simply wasn’t enough.  _

_ And so the boy took ahold of his anger. No matter how much he destroyed, it never was enough, not even after everything was broken beyond repair. He drowned, deeper and deeper in rage and hate and pain that didn’t belong to a child his age, until it was all he ever knew.  _

_ And then, with enough anger and hatred fueling him, the boy began to destroy once more. He reached for the door that locked him from the rest of the world, and found it crumbling to nothing underneath his fingertips. He found the floorboards turning to ash under his feet; the servants fled in horror at just one look at him and didn’t turn back.  _

_ The boy’s parents were on their way home when they saw their son. He walked through the gardens of the giant house, rosebushes of the loveliest shade wilting just from his proximity, the grass turning yellow and then brown and then black until it was no more.  _

_ In a silent plea for help—from them, from anyone—he boy reached out for his parents. But just like they had so many times in his life, they turned away; backs to him, they fled.  _

_ True loneliness is a hard emotion to explain. It has a power of its own, and the boy took it—with his anger, his rage, his despair—and let it all go.  _

_ As death heralded on the steps of every house in the village, the young girl left her house only to be greeted by dust and ash and pain. She saw her friends and loved ones, crumbling to  _ nothingness  _ before her eyes, as if they’d never been. She saw the trees, with their freshly grown spring coats, turning deader than they would under winter’s hand. She saw vitality and life and happiness and joy bleed away simply under one child’s hatred.  _

_ The girl knew that she could very much end up like the rest of the village if she didn’t turn heel and flee. But instead, she headed towards the center of the chaos, through the graveyard that was once her home, and met the boy.  _

_The boy did not look up when she approached; not until she was directly in front of him. When he finally lifted his head, the girl realized that all semblance of humanity had left his face. His eyes were pits of black, inky streaks marring his face, and when he opened his mouth to speak, no human words came out. As time passed, even_ he _had_ _begun to crumble under his own power._

_ But the girl did not. She stared down at him, not out of pity or fear—no, the boy could recognize the emotion in her eyes perfectly well, even if his sight blurred and bled. She reached out for him, took his hand as it began to fall apart and decay, and did not let go. Not as her own body threatened to dissipate to nothingness, not when he gripped harder and harder until pain was all she knew.  _

_ But with a grip anchoring him, the boy began to calm down. Like patching a leak, the girl slowly stopped the influx of power from him, until his eyes returned to normal and he spoke one single word:  _ help _.  _

_ So she tightened her grip even after he stopped and did not let go. She pulled the boy to his feet until they could both see the destruction that lay in front of them.  _

_ The boy, for the first time in his life, felt horror at the sight of such destruction. Because this wasn’t toys broken in half or a shattered china bowl; in front of him were streets that he had run down, turned to rubble. In front of him were people he used to see, reduced to nothing more than a breath of ash. All because of  _ him. 

_ And for the first time in his life, the boy thought of something other than himself. He looked at the girl, her face smudged with dirt and pain and fatigue and said,  _ I’m sorry. 

_ But even a thousand apologies could not bring back the dead. The girl knew, and the only thing she could do was prevent the boy from destroying any further. She did not let go of his hand, but instead extended her grip to the other one as well.  _ Let’s go,  _ she said to him.  _

Where?  _ he asked back, because there was nothing more. Every meager thing he ever owned was gone, and she the same.  _

Somewhere,  _ the girl replied, and led him away.  _

_ She gripped his hand tight and he squeezed back with just the same strength. And yet again, for the first time in his life, the boy learned to breathe.  _

_ Because it wasn’t hate that had driven him, nor was it anger. At the end of the day, it had been loneliness—and with her, the boy knew he wouldn’t have to feel that anymore. They left, and he did not turn back to look.  _

_ But the girl did, once. For but a split second; she could not bear to watch again. In her hurry, she missed the single flower blooming from between two blacked, broken boards.  _

_ So she and the boy left, walking until they reached the edge of the world.  _   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i said fairytale i meant fairytale. question is what does this fairytale mean? :D 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [e-milieeee!](https://e-milieeee.tumblr.com/)


	14. unravel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello i have nothing to say except i am very sorry that this is like... three months late. my goal is now to update once a month because i really love this story and want to complete it but school kicked me in the butt and.... yeah :')

Marinette falls asleep listening to Adrien’s voice telling a story, sitting an arm’s reach from her. She wakes up alone, in silence. 

She’s still lying on the couch, nestled deeply in furs and draped with a woolen blanket. It’s not cold—it’s never really cold inside the palace—and the position is so comfortable that Marinette almost doesn’t want to get up. 

Almost. But Adrien is nowhere to be seen and the lack of windows here provide no help in gauging the time of day, so she hasn’t a minute to waste. Not when time is precious, and she’s let so much of it slip by already. 

The last thing Marinette remembers is Adrien reading to her—the fairytale of the young girl and boy who’d destroyed everything—before she’d drifted off. In hindsight, forcing herself to stay late hours into the night comes with obvious consequences (one being, apparently, the inability to keep her eyes open the moment she gets comfortable), but it’s still a sore disappointment that she hasn’t managed to do more last night. 

With that thought, Marinette forces herself upright, even as she swears she can feel her bones creaking at the suddenness of the action. Her stomach rumbles—it must be pretty late, then.

The first order of business is finding her way back to her room. She’s too unfamiliar with this wing of the palace to do more than wander blind, and without Adrien leading the way, Marinette is as good as lost. She picks up her books on the table, then glances one last time at the couch across from her, where Adrien had sat. 

The fairytale book still remains open. After a moment of indecision, Marinette picks it up also. It probably won’t offer much help in terms of practicality when solving the curse, but the story had been interesting enough to pique her curiosity. 

_If I have time,_ she tells herself—a lie. There is no such thing as _having time,_ not until this month has passed. 

With three books tucked underneath her arm, she heads towards the door of the library and pushes open the heavy doors. 

The hallways are no less brighter than the library without the help of natural light. She decides to go left, going off a brief recollection of turning _right_ when coming here. 

The worst part about the palace is, perhaps, the fact that all corridors seem to look the same. There’s no identifiers. Marinette had learnt the layout of the other wing solely through trial and error alone. Here, the palace once again feels like an endless loop. 

At some point, she isn’t sure if she’s gotten herself any closer to the main hall or further away. Marinette takes a couple of turns, then to her relief, ends up in a much wider corridor. The ceilings rise to a more imposing height, and at the other side, coloured sunlight filters through stained-glass windows. It’s hard to judge how late it is, but it’s definitely bright enough out there to be well into the morning. 

Marinette peers down both ends of the corridor and tries to make a decision as to where to go. She’s finally decided on going left when someone calls, “Marinette?” 

It’s not like she did anything wrong, but Marinette practically leaps out of her skin at the sound of the voice. For a brief second she wonders if it’s Adrien, but that’s stupid—the sun is out, and the boy walking towards her is dressed in signature black and gold, a pair of cat ears sitting on the top of his head. A mask slopes down from his forehead and over his nose, covering all but sharp green eyes. 

Right. Not Adrien. Marinette tries to force the tension out of herself. She’s been getting along with the prince just splendidly these past couple of days, and yesterday… well, yesterday must've been some sort of fluke after she’d used magic. Today is a new day, and she tries to shrug off Chat Noir’s odd behaviour from yesterday in hopes that it’ll be gone already. 

“Good morning,” she greets, hoping her voice isn’t a pitch too high like it feels. 

Chat doesn’t echo the greeting. “How did you end up here?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused. “The west wing is…” His brow knits together. “I’m usually the only one around in this wing.” 

Multiple different excuses rise to the tip of her tongue, but Marinette ultimately decides to stick with the truth. “Adrien brought me to a library in this wing and I fell asleep there.” 

If he’s any more surprised to hear the name or still confused, the expression is wiped from his face like a blank slate. Then, in that silk-and-honey voice that had grated on Marinette’s every last nerve in the very beginning, he replies, “Are you lost?” 

It’s a tone she’s very much not accustomed to anymore, because Chat Noir is less unreadable coolness and shadows as he is sometimes awkward, always considerate, and very much a boy her age. Marinette squints at him until he has to repeat the question to her. 

“I’m…” Marinette squints down the corridor, “... lost.” 

“Ah.” There’s a hint of his smile in his tone. “Follow me, then.” 

The click of their shoes on the floor is the only sound audible for at least a minute, and Marinette wonders, with no small amount of chagrin, if she’s done something wrong because his slightly _off_ (now turned _very_ off) attitude is _still_ there, and it makes her both upset and uncomfortable. She contemplates asking him if she’s offended him somehow, but the words barely have time to rise before she swallows them down. It just doesn’t seem to be a very fitting question to ask right now. Maybe he’s had a rough day. Or a rough night. Whatever. 

There’s also the matter of making sure he attends Queenie’s ball so that she can actually get information out of the other girl. _That_ is a much pressing matter, but unfortunately, another question Marinette has no idea how to bring up. 

She’s in the process of formulating the most natural way to ease it into a conversation when they pass into a familiar hallway once more—the main archives. Here, sunlight slants down through high windows and filters colourfully from whichever stained-glass pane it hits first, sending patches of multicoloured light splintering on the carpet. Marinette’s certain that this wing of the palace is _much_ fancier than the other—but emptier. No servants hurry down the halls, even though it’s daytime. 

_Why._ The question lingers as she peers at Chat. His face is set in an easy expression, mouth relaxed, but it’s unreadable, and that’s the worst of it all. Marinette can find a solution with anger, with surprise, fear, joy, nervousness—but she can’t with apathy. 

It takes most of her courage to mumble, “Chat.” 

“Hm?” His voice is a pleasant hum. 

Marinette decides to say it. She squares her shoulders. “You’re acting strange.” 

He actually stops walking for a second before resuming. “Strange how?” 

Now that she’s got the momentum, it’s easier to keep plowing forward. Marinette folds her arms. “Just… strange. Like you’re uncomfortable, or something.” It’s difficult to describe when she can hardly say courtesy in itself is a strange behaviour, but she’s certain Chat Noir knows what she’s talking about. 

She waits nervously for the response. _What’s wrong_ and _did I do something_ and _you’re treating me strangely and I don’t like it_ all are perfectly valid questions, but not to _him,_ because it shouldn’t matter. She’s not here to make friends and whatever _this_ is shouldn’t act like a setback. Her main purpose is to focus on breaking the curse, so maybe it’s wrong for her to wonder about his behaviour. So what if he’s acting differently? As long as it doesn’t get into the way of the curse, _so what? So what?_ Marinette repeats to herself. 

“Strange how so?” Chat Noir finally questions back, still in that mild-mannered voice. 

“Just—did I do something wrong?” 

“No?” But his tone remains, and enough is enough. Marinette gives up. 

“Never mind,” she replies sharply. “I’m going to eat breakfast.” 

“Then the library?” he asks, not even bothering to question her ‘nevermind’, which makes Marinette angrier. Maybe it’s her fault for saying _nevermind,_ but it clearly _hadn’t_ been a _nevermind_ and she was certain he knew as well. It was honestly more of an _I mind,_ except—

She takes a good look at the prince, but there’s nothing on his face that betrays anything. He’s not being cold, just… overly courteous, in the worst sort of way. The way Marinette hates, because it reminds her of the people who’d remained prim and polite and then mocked her behind her back. 

She’s not hurt, of course. Just annoyed. That’s all. 

“I can study the book myself today,” Marinette declares, even though the truth is that she cannot and probably _should not_ tackle reading and writing on her own. But looking at Chat Noir makes anger boil and simmer beneath her skin and it makes her even more irritated because she really _does_ like his presence and talking to him and—

Marinette spins on her heel. “Forget it,” she snaps, and does not take another look at his face. “If you’re going to act like that, then don’t do it around me. I can find my way back from here. Thanks.” 

“I can help you find—” 

“ _No,”_ she shouts over her shoulder, and tears across the grand hall towards the more familiar side of the palace and tries to breathe out the anger. 

She’s not particularly successful because the thought of Chat sends her irritation spiking higher and higher each time, and the most Marinette can do is try to focus on every little thing that isn’t the prince. The floor ( _why is he acting like that_ ), the paintings ( _what did I do for that to happen)_ , the chiselled wooden doors ( _it doesn’t matter anyways it doesn’t matter anyways it doesn’t matter anyways)—_

“Woah, woah,” someone says, and Marinette halts. She’d been too absorbed in her thoughts to hear the footsteps behind her. 

She turns to see a blend of orange and green standing next to each other. It’s Rena, arms folded across her chest and head tilted at Marinette, looking effortlessly graceful. Next to her, Carapace watches her with golden eyes, not saying a word. 

Marinette tries for a smile that she can only hope doesn’t look as forced as it feels. “Good morning,” she greets thinly. “I was just heading off to breakfast.” 

“You still haven’t eaten?” Rena asks, one graceful eyebrow arched high. “It’s pretty late. Weren’t you up really early yesterday? Your sleep schedule is rather strange, Marinette.” 

Rena doesn’t know about Adrien, and Marinette figures it’s better to keep it that way. So she shrugs. “I guess.” 

Rena, thankfully, seems to pick up the hint that it’s a topic Marinette doesn’t want to pursue any further. “I need to talk to Chat Noir later,” she says, then offers a smile. “But Carapace and I can accompany you to breakfast, if you’d like.” 

Marinette considers the offer. She weighs the option of refusing Rena and sticking with her original plan: grab food, and wander off to the library to do some studying alone. Then she thinks about eating a meal with someone other than the prince for once, and a surge of age-worn spite pricks at her. 

“That sounds good,” she agrees. 

*** 

Marinette has never shared a meal with Rena Rouge before, much less Carapace. Carapace is slightly less reserved than the last time they talked, but he’s still quiet, like he’s content in letting Rena guide most of the conversation. Marinette finds it easy to talk to the other girl. There’s no thought required about it, like there sometimes is with Adrien and Chat Noir. 

Marinette ends up eating a far larger breakfast than she intends to (there’s eggs en cocotte, at least five varieties of bread and far more pastries, and fruits that _should not_ be in season right now, sausages piled high), and she also ends up chatting much more than she’d planned on doing. Rena talks of just about anything, and for some reason, makes it sound interesting: the weather, the ball she’s planning, the dinner she burnt a day prior, and something silly Queenie did that morning. It’s when the topic glances on Chat Noir that Marinette’s throat tightens. 

She tries to force her voice out as neutral as possible. Yes, she’s working on solving the curse with the prince. Yeah, they’re getting along just fine. Marinette shuts it down before she can dwell on her anger that fights to surface. 

Carapace asks a few questions of his own here and there, but they’re much more thoughtful than Rena’s relatively thoughtless chatter. Marinette answers them to the best of her ability. 

By the end of breakfast, Marinette is comfortably full. Rena bids her good luck and goodbye, then, leaves with Carapace. 

Marinette watches them turn a corner. She’s pretty certain Rena, tiptoeing, slings an arm around his shoulders and pulls him to her height, giggling about something. But they’re gone in a blink of an eye, and Marinette figures that it’s pointless to dwell on. (Just like Chat Noir’s odd behaviour is pointless to dwell on, she reminds herself.) 

It doesn’t help the bitter feeling that refuses to leave her mouth, even if everything she’d eaten for breakfast had made to perfection. Marinette makes a quick trip to her room to wash up and change, then heads straight for the library. She’s already wasted too much time, and she’s determined not to waste more. 

***

Reading without the help of anyone else proves more difficult than Marinette realized. 

She manages to get through one page on her own, but it’s slow and tedious work. She’s forced to leave certain sentences marked, isn’t sure on a handful of words, and what’s worse, feels the beginnings of a migraine brewing in the back of her head. For a couple of useless, painful hours she stews in irritation, anger, humiliation, and absolute frustration as she goes through the book alone. 

She finds herself wishing on more than one occasion that there would be someone sitting across from her, with his quiet laughs and reassurances as he correct her mistakes and—

Marinette slams _A Brief History of Magic_ shut so hard that she can hear it echoing in the now-empty archives. The paper before her is smudged with ink, where she had painstakingly written the names of the words that she hadn’t been able to read or sound out on her own. Ugly, scrawling writing; so different from the prince’s elegant script. 

The more she looks, the sharper her anger turns, before she decides that it’s a good idea to get some fresh air. 

It’s how Marinette ends up in the garden, hugging her cloak tightly. The last of the leaves have been shed from the trees, once-colourful coats turning the colour of rust and death. Soon, the snow will be here as well. Another reminder that time passes much too quickly, and she does not have enough of it to spare. 

Her wandering takes her across the garden, through the bushes, and in front of the training arena once more. 

The door is slightly ajar, but the hall itself still looks relatively empty. The window is too high for Marinette to peek up—there’s no way to confirm whether or not the damage she’d done with the windows barely a day before is still there. 

The flicker of torches greet her when she slips inside the training hall, but it doesn’t fight much of the chill. Shivering, Marinette pulls her cloak tighter, squinting as the place flares to life. 

The glass is gone. She remembers the mess; shattered into a million pieces, unfixable—yet the window is sealed as if nothing had been different, and not a trace of yesterday remains on the ground. She has a feeling that it hadn’t been Chat Noir who had reversed the damage, and the thought of some strange force of magic working makes her stomach churn. 

But then again, Marinette assumes that she’ll have to familiarize herself with magic, now. It’s still hard to believe that what happened yesterday could have come from _her,_ but if she can use magic… well, then a lot of things might be different. 

Chat Noir’s words about directing magic come back to her. Flexing her frozen fingers, Marinette heads for the weapons wall once more to pick up a bow. 

***

Archery with frozen fingers messes up her aim either more, but Marinette has a niggling suspicion that it’s not completely because her hands are stiff. 

When the eighth arrow she fires doesn’t even hit the target, Marinette sets down the bow in frustration, too irritated to try any further. She’s tempted to attempt more magic, but she has nowhere to start without Chat Noir’s guidance and the last result had been less than satisfactory. All she remembers is that strange tug in her stomach, right before she’d shattered the window to smithereens. 

On one hand, if she’s to break the curse, her first order of business is probably not to die. Marinette’s not certain she trusts herself enough to attempt magic without something going horribly wrong, especially without supervision. On the other hand… well, not doing anything is just as uncomfortably useless. 

She ends up balancing a sword on its hilt. It sways precariously but does not tumble over, so Marinette plants her feet in front of it and tries to focus on summoning any sort of magic she can get. She’s made sure she’s a fair distance from the window, at least, so if that happens again… at least she’ll be out of the range. 

For a while, she just stares at the sword, part of her expecting it to topple over at any moment. When it doesn’t, Marinette fills her lungs to the brim with air, then lets out an exhale, trying to envision something—anything—that would be helpful. 

The only thing she succeeds in is really taking a deep breath. Then another, and another. The sword does not budge, and although Marinette _tries,_ she can’t even begin to find the level of concentration she’d managed a day before. There is no tugging in her gut unless she counts the rolling wave of frustration, and she feels as regular and plain as she’d always felt. No hint of any sort of special affinity to power. 

_Breathe,_ Marinette tells herself. _Breathe, breathe, BREATHE—_

Wind does not knock down the sword; it’s her foot that connects with the flat of the blade and sends it skidding across the marble floor with an awful screeching sound. Marinette scowls at it, her breathing anything but calm. It’s just too much: Chat Noir’s behaviour, the curse, having to read on her own, and now magic. At this time of year, she and her father should be stacking up for the winter, busy but cheerful. They’re _together._ The bakery—size, belongings, everything—barely holds a candle to the castle, yet it’s home. It’s home, and she wouldn’t trade it for all the luxury in the world before, and she wouldn’t now. Because even if she can wear the prettiest dresses she’s ever dreamed of and feel full after every meal, she doesn’t want it. She doesn’t want castles, curses, enchantments, and certainly not a green-eyed prince. 

Maybe it’s a good thing that the window hasn’t shattered this time around, but when Marinette stares forlornly at the sword on the ground and thinks of just how impossible it is to solve the curse and how the best case scenario right now is her father sitting at home, alone, and nothing seems quite right. Not with learning magic, with breaking the curse, with the prince. 

And because no one’s around and because she’s been holding it back for a while, Marinette sits on the cold, marble floor, tucks her head into the crook of her elbows, and cries. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like i said im so sorry...... i'll try to be updating more often for now :'( please lmk what u think of the chapter aaa!


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